Grace Note
by SymphonyinA
Summary: With Christine's happiness nearly sealed, Erik hopes to finally tear away from his past and find peace. But when the Vicomte vanishes in the night, everything unravels. E/C, ALW with Kay influences
1. Chapter 1: The Vicomte

_**March, 1882**_

Erik pulled tight his cloak against the wind. His eyes, shining through the slits in his leather mask, were red as the rope coiled at his side. All his senses were at attention, every creak of a door or cough of a man turned his head, and for a moment, he paused to see if it was worth investigating. Every time, it was not, and he continued on, a shadow upon the weathered bricks.

On both sides of him were houses of brick with peeling paint, all packed tight together. Rooms were placed upon each other in precarious fashion, some with black windows, some with gaping holes. Refuse lined the streets. Moth-eaten curtains fluttered in the wind. An infant wailed.

"Monsieur," a skeleton pleaded from where it trembled beneath a doorframe. It took a moment for Erik to realize it was a woman. Her veined claw of a hand extended. "Please, anything, monsieur-"

"Do you know where the Vicomte de Chagny is?" he asked.

"W-who?"

"A young gentleman with blonde hair and blue eyes, well dressed. I imagine there are few of those around here... Have you seen such a man?"

She nodded, and he feared her head might tumble off her neck from the exertion of it.

"Where?" he asked.

She gestured to a gaping alleyway, her frail arm swaying. "T-there."

He dropped five francs into her quaking hand, and her milky cataracts widened. When she glanced up, he had vanished into the darkness.

The alleyway he had entered blocked the wind, but bottled up the stench of refuse. There was the hum of voices and a high-pitched laugh further down. Piano notes met his ears- drunken, careless ones. They grew louder as he approached. There was also a distinct tinkling of glass- or voices? He could not tell which.

Two women leaned against the first building he had seen so far with all unbroken windows, and each was aglow with light. Both women were in dresses far too thin for the cool night, but they managed to slide the crimson fabric lower over their shoulders, one bearing a fading bruise. This woman's hair was blonde, the other's black, and both were piled high on their heads in bright ringlets and bows.

"Good evening, monsieur," one called, smirking with red-painted cheeks.

"Good evening," Erik replied stiffly. "Cold night to be lingering in the street."

The woman recited a laugh, thinking he was trying to be witty. Her painted smirk fled as she realized he was masked.

"A bit..." she said, faltering. Then she recovered her composure with a red-lined smile. "Well, if you're looking to get warm, though-"

"I'm actually looking for a man."

Her eyebrows rose. "Eh... a man?"

"A vicomte. I need to speak with him, and I was told he had come here. Do you know of such a person?"

The red-cheeked woman whispered something to the other, who slipped inside. She moved closer to Erik, raising her shoulders to replace the straps of her dress.

"How much will you pay for information like that?" she whispered.

"Fifty francs," he replied, shuffling the notes in his pocket.

"F-fifty francs?..." She glanced back at the bright building, her eyes wide. Then she turned back, pointing ahead. "They're keeping him there, down the way. Number 305."

"Keeping him?"

"Yes, and I-I didn't say anything to you, monsieur," she said hurriedly. "Do you hear?"

His eyes darkened. "I wouldn't want someone to know I had spoken to a prostitute."

He slipped the francs into her hand. Her powdered features softened in wonder, but when she looked up from her hands, the masked man was gone. Had the francs not remained, she might have believed him a ghost.

Erik continued down the alleyway, past a few more decrepit beings in doorways, some clutching wailing bundles with blue hands. A fire was burning in the street, and a few children fed the flames with whatever they could scrape off the sidewalk. Before, he might have been able to look at them without any emotion save disgust, but now he forced himself to ignore their plight, rather than be affected by it and drain his pockets. Ah, but coins fell into the street nonetheless. A careless mistake, but he had not the time to retrieve them.

Nothing had been the same after Christine. The whole world had turned on its head. Something had come alive within him, opened his eyes to a new part of life. At times he saw beauty, but often more of pain.

As the children descended upon the fallen coins, Erik came upon the rusty numbers "305." His lip rose in a scowl. It was then that a burly man in shabby dress clothes stepped out of the doorway, pipe in hand. He cast up a feather of smoke before turning to the dark figure.

"Good evening, monsieur," Erik said.

The man squinted, then scratched at his black beard. "Who're you?"

"I believe it's polite to say 'good evening' before asking for one's name, but, if you can't spare time for formalities, I will be forward: I'm looking for the Vicomte de Chagny. I was told he was... staying with you."

The man wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "No, you're mistaken. What would a vicomte be doing here, even 'f he were out lookin' for a lady."

"What indeed? That is what I have come to find out, and I hope you will answer me quickly."

"Or what?"

The red rope snaked about the man's neck.

"What do you know?" Erik demanded. "I can tell when men are lying to me, and I have no time for games... Well?"

The man's dark eyes bulged as he tugged at the unrelenting rope. "He's... i-inside."

"Is he a captive or here willingly?"

"C-captive."

 _Damn it_ , Erik thought. "Are there others?"

"N-no-"

"Are there others besides _you?_ "

"One, one other, only, I swear, I swear!"

Erik dragged the man in and bound him to a chair, then stuffed a rag in his mouth to silence him. As he glanced about the one room abode, he found it was scarcely furnished, with two grimy windows, a threadbare rug set up like a carpet, and a wooden table and chairs, all well-used. A frail moan issued from beneath their feet.

Erik removed the rag from the man's mouth, and said calmly, "Explain yourself."

"We kept him down there," the man admitted.

"And why did you kidnap him?" Erik asked.

He squirmed. "Money."

"Do I look like a man to be trifled with?" he hissed, leaning over the chair and titling it for emphasis. "If it was for money, why no ransom?"

"We didn't want to be found out. We had to wait."

"Ah. Now indulge my curiosity. Why?"

The man swallowed. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. "He was going to a party of some sort, one of those affairs where the money could be given to these starving children in the streets, and they would still have most of it left over. But no, they buy fine silks, fine wines, and turn up their noses at us, as if we are at fault for-"

"I don't give a damn at the moment about your sense of justice," Erik snapped, his eyes burning ever brighter behind his mask. "I only wanted the facts, not a speech. You should have found a different man to hold captive, one without ties to men like myself. If you've hurt the vicomte, I'll do everything you did to him and more until you crawl on the floor and beg like a dog... He's supposed to be married soon, surely you have some shred of decency?"

"The opera girl?" the man chuckled nervously. "You think a man like that would marry a wh-?"

Erik grabbed the man's throat, "You would be wise... not to say another word about that woman. She is the only thing keeping you alive, but as she is not here... what she doesn't know won't hurt her."

He stared into the man's eyes until he shuddered with fright, then he released him, blood pounding in his ears. After stuffing the rag back into the man's blubbering mouth, he headed down a spiral staircase to the basement. The scent of stagnant, musty air rose as he descended.

"Jean? That you?" A man called, his voice slurred from drink. He rose from his chair, stumbling across the stone floor.

Silence.

"Jean-?"

The red rope coiled about his neck, and he collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath. Erik held the man down with his boot, pressing hard on the tender spot just below his ribcage.

"Where is he?" Erik hissed, bending over him.

The man gestured to the far corner with a trembling hand, his eyes wide and pleading in the darkness. He was released, gasping for breath and clutching his throat.

"I would've killed you," Erik said before knocking him unconscious with his boot.

A moan issued from the corner, accompanied by the shuffling of chains against the stone floor. Two blue eyes appeared, red rivulets in the whites of them.

"Good evening, monsieur," Erik said tersely to the shivering mass. "I'm taking you to Christine, so don't fight me."

The young man coughed and wheezed. "Water... please, water, t-there."

A shackled hand gestured to the far wall, where a pump was affixed to the stone bricks, alongside a bucket. Erik filled this and tipped it to the vicomte's lips. Once the young man had nearly drowned himself from thirst, Erik began to free him using a key he had procured from the unconscious man. The shackles clattered to the floor.

"You're not well," he said, pressing the back of his hand to Raoul's forehead. "We need to get you back quickly."

He carried him upstairs like an infant, then they went out onto the dark street. Nighttime provided perfect cover from prying eyes. They were certainly a sight.

At the edge of the road, they came to a brougham that Erik had paid to wait. He deposited the vicomte upon the red cushions inside, then got in himself and shut the door. The horses started immediately.

Raoul coughed, "W-why... did you come?"

"Because Christine loves you," Erik replied, but his tone was cruel and coarse. "Now rest. I should hate to have wasted my efforts on a dead man."

This was certainly not how he had wanted the night to go. He had been certain the vicomte was betraying Christine with another woman, certain! He had wanted to murder him, not _save_ him. Oh, never before had he been in such a ridiculous position: sitting across from a feverish and broken Vicomte de Chagny, having rescued the man! He could have let him remain there, in the dark, could have left him for dead, but he had given the boy to Christine, in the hope he would provide her the happiness and freedom she sought. The boy's death would ruin her, that he knew, and that he would never permit.

The brougham deposited them in front of the de Chagny estate. Erik grabbed Raoul, rather roughly this time, and dragged him up onto the front step. He knocked on the front door. The noise echoed in the empty foyer, and he waited for the sound of footsteps. The single _clop_ of a shoe, and he left Raoul alone on the step, choosing himself to go see Christine. He had a reason, after all; he had saved her fiancé. She ought to hear the story from his lips, no other's.

She was on the second floor, the end of the hall, secluded from the rest. He had found that out, should he need to know, but had never visited. There had been no viable reason until now save his own desperation.

The way the stone walls were designed, he could scale them. Not with ease, but neither with great difficulty. Assassins had to be adept at such climbs. There were coarse footholds, windows lined with sculpted stone. It was tedious, but simple.

He slipped in through her window, which had been curiously left open despite the cool night. The sight of her bedroom riled him. It was evidently a guest room, and certainly not one of the best. The wallpaper was sulfur-yellow with thin white stripes running down it, and there was nothing hanging from the walls- no paintings, no photographs, not even a mirror. There was a desk in the corner of pale wood, and atop it, a few loose papers, a pen, and an inkwell. Beside this was a little vanity in white with painted flowers over the mirror, and an inscription in tarnished silver: _Une Rose en Fleur._

The bed was a four-poster in the same pale wood as the desk, and it had cream-white hangings. Christine was lying in the center, curled up under two quilted blankets, with used handkerchiefs crumpled up on the nightstand beside her. Her eyes sat in gray pits, and her pallor had drained to a ghostly white. Her lips were pale and thin, pulled taut in her sleep. On the pillow, her curls were a wild halo from restless slumber. Beneath the bedsheets, her figure was curled up about herself for comfort, her legs clutched to her chest. He stared at her miserable state, pain building in his chest. He had not fully realized the immense toll that her fiancé's absence had taken on her. Perhaps he _should_ have murdered those men. Simply the absence of roses in her cheeks had earned them the noose.

At least the boy had paid already for letting her stay in such a room. Why was she so far away from everyone? He was not complaining, of course, for his own sake at that moment, but certainly she could stay in a nicer room than this, and closer to her beloved. Something was not quite right, and he had a mind to find out what.

"Christine?" he whispered as he went to lock her door.

This done, he drifted back over to her side. A piece of yellow paper peeked out from underneath her pillow. His hand ached to retrieve it, to have a glimpse into her thoughts after months of silence. To hear her voice, that was all he desired now, even if it was through her pen. Instead, as he removed it with great care, he found music notes upon it, scratched out in pencil on lines of ink. It was a piano accompaniment, combined with words, and these were of love. What else for an engaged woman?

His heart inflamed. How could that boy even begin to appreciate this? Music was the blood in Christine's veins. Her very pulse was a melody. The boy could hardly clap his hands in line with a rhythm, and from his poor taste in operas, he had no ear for music. How could he even attempt to love her if he did not understand her passion?

Erik slipped the piece of paper back beneath her pillow, his curiosity sated for now, but in its place, agony. She was not his, and never would be. It tore out his heart to remind himself that she would rather die than be with him. He had no doubt in his mind of that. When she had kissed him, it had been, at once, the happiest and most miserable moment of his life. The light in her eyes had extinguished. She had resigned herself to her fate- _resigned,_ like a lamb on the marble table. He had to let her go. There was no other choice.

Oh, if only the boy had been with another woman, as he had thought at first that day, then perhaps she might have changed her mind! She could have loved him for revealing the boy's true nature. Curse the boy's fidelity! Why did he have to be an honest gentleman? How could she have actually found a man perhaps— _perhaps—_ worthy of her in that respect?

"Christine?" he tried again.

Her brown lashes fluttered open. She stared up at him for a moment, dumb from sleep, before fear flooded her eyes. She threw herself to her feet on the opposite side of the bed, a pillow clasped in her arms. It heaved with her breaths.

"You killed him," she whispered, her eyes darkening in two gray pools. "You killed him!"

"No, no, he's here," he insisted, lifting his arms out in front of himself to calm her. "He's alive, he was kidnapped-"

She threw the pillow at him with all her might. It hit him square in the face. He stepped back in mild surprise, almost amused, until he saw her again. Her knees knocked together where she stood, and her eyes blazed with a fire he had never before witnessed.

"You killed him," she said, her voice frail and frightened now, almost in resignation. "And now you come for _me_."

He took a step towards her. She grabbed a silver candlestick firmly in both her trembling hands and raised it over her shoulder as a warning. Oh, but she would never hurt anyone, that he knew. Not even him.

"I have not killed the vicomte," he said, softly and slowly. "I just deposited him on your doorstep. I expect he is being cared for this very moment... And I did not come to take you away. I only came to bring him to you, and then to see you."

She adjusted her grip on the silver surface. Her features tightened further as her knuckles grew white.

"We both know you wouldn't hurt anyone," he told her.

Her gaze hardened. "You think so? Not even a murderer?"

Pain shot through his chest. "The phantom is dead. That means no more murders."

"And yet his lies remain."

"Why would I lie to you now?"

He took a single step forward, with great care, but she only gripped her weapon more tightly. Her eyes narrowed.

"All you've ever told me is lies," she said. "The only time honesty ever comes from your lips is when you are devoid of that dreadful thing."

"I would permit you that, but this particular mask is rather tedious to fasten, so I must deny you."

She did not so much as flinch. He had intended that to add a bit of levity, but her gaze was still as fiery as before, though her legs had ceased their trembling. Their eyes bore deep into the other's, searching within the contents of each for a sign of weakness.

After a moment of consideration, he lunged for the candlestick. She slammed the rod down against his shoulder without hesitation. He bit down on his tongue in pain, his eyes widening in shock. She swung again. The candlestick hummed through the air. Erik grabbed it with both hands, wresting it from her grasp as she struggled to shake his grip. As she stiffened to scream, devoid of her weapon, he wrapped an arm about her waist and clapped a hand over her mouth. The candlestick clattered to the floor.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he insisted, wincing at the hot pain in his shoulder. "I need you to _listen_."

She was too dazed to understand. She flailed and kicked as Erik struggled to secure each of her limbs. He pushed her into a pale-wood chair with the weight of his body, using his legs and arms to keep her still. Her eyes cleared with the realization that she was trapped, and she fell limp in defeat as she began to cry.

"I only came to return the boy to you," he explained once more, now quite desperate to calm her. "I swear it."

She refused to look at him, her chin nearly pressed against her collarbone. Her tears were scalding him.

"Promise you won't scream if I remove my hand," he said.

She glanced at the door, then nodded. Her breaths were soft and heavy. He removed his hand and kneeled down in front of her, though he prepared himself that she might try to flee at any moment.

"How can I believe you?" she asked.

"The boy is here, as proof-"

"Do you take me for a fool?" she demanded, the darkness beneath her eyes growing. "I have had to bear it from everyone in this household, even the servants, but I will _not_ stand for it from you. I know you took him, don't deny it. I'm not a fool. I'm not."

"Of course you're not," he agreed, trying desperately to calm her into a sensible state. "I never said you were, never even thought it. Who else would have kidnapped him, after all, but me? But why would I take away the very thing I gave back to you? Unless you thought I kidnapped him, then brought him back to try and make you love me, but do you take _me_ for such a fool as to attempt that?"

"I don't know what else to think," she replied, shifting uncomfortably on the chair, which creaked. "Nothing makes sense anymore. Why would someone have kidnapped Raoul? He's never hurt anyone. He's a proper gentleman- better than that, even, kind and sincere... Why, you may be the only one who hates him."

Erik waved away her words, ignoring the burning sensation within his chest. "It doesn't matter why he was taken, but that I have returned him to you now, and everything is well for you... _is it not?_ "

She stared at him for a moment, then glanced down. Confusion grew taut between her eyes. After a moment of quiet contemplation, she shook her head weakly. The tears in the corners of her eyes trembled.

"Why not?" he demanded. "I gave him to you, just like you wanted, and now he has failed you?"

"Not him. Oh no, not him at all! I am so fond of him, and he's always been honest with me, always listens, always treats me with respect and care... But... I fear we will never be married, e-even if he came back, no one would allow it."

"What do you mean?"

"That's why we aren't married this very instant. Philippe keeps delaying us, a-and now..." Her voice trembled. "He is trying to convince everyone that I'm mad just to turn them against us. Can you imagine that? Making me into a madwoman? But everyone here but Raoul hates me anyway. I don't know why he even bothers increasing that disdain. Even the servants mutter under their breath about me, but not like how they would treat a mistress. It's strange. I'm treated like that because I'm not a mistress. If I was, I feel they might be more hospitable, but the fact that I am in a place I do not belong, not following the typical conduct of a chorus girl, well, they are unable to bear it. His relatives belittle me openly, teasing me, and I try to smile and laugh, to set Raoul at ease..." Her eyes softened. "My poor, poor Raoul... but I don't know how much more I can take."

"Perhaps I should take you away from here, then, if they don't treat you properly."

"You think you could give me better?" she scoffed, but there was a sadness lurking beneath.

"I would give anything to have that chance."

Her features relaxed into a sorrowful expression as her eyes lowered. "You had your chance... though I wish-"

A knock at the door interrupted them. "Mademoiselle?" a woman's voice called.

Erik covered her mouth again with his hand. "Don't say a word about me. The vicomte will tell you himself, I saved his life."

"You really did save him, then?" she whispered. "But why would you?"

"Mademoiselle?" the woman outside the door said with greater resolve, her knocks more insistent.

"Not a word," he said.

He slipped out the window. The pale drapes fluttered in his wake, then were still as Christine pulled the glass shut behind him. She exhaled through her teeth. What was she to do with this selfless gesture from a man who had hardly been able to let her go and live her life? How could he have managed to bring back his enemy to her? It was incomprehensible.

She threw a silk shawl covered in cherry blossoms about her shoulders, and with a breath of courage, opened the door.


	2. Chapter 2: The Maze

A maidservant stood in the doorway. Her dark hair was in a disheveled knot on the top of her head, and one of the buttons of her black dress was undone above her apron. Her lips were white.

"The vicomte is here," she told Christine. "He's in bed now, we don't know how he returned-"

Christine was already sprinting to his bedroom, still in her stockings. His bedroom door was ajar, letting a ray of flickering light bleed into the hallway. She pushed it the rest of the way open with trembling hands.

The sight of him tore the air out of her lungs. He was gray in pallor, his wrists atop the quilted blankets were an angry red and oozing as if infected. He coughed and wheezed with every intake of breath. Even though a roaring fire lay before him, he shivered violently. She hurried to his side and clasped his hand in hers.

"Raoul, Raoul," she said gently, her eyes stinging with tears, "it's your Christine. I-I'm here now. You're going to be fine. You're home."

His eyes forced themselves open as she leaned down to kiss his forehead. "Christine... h-he... brought me... the phantom, he-"

"I know, shh, rest."

He looked up at her in confusion at this admission, but his gaze was drawn away by approaching footsteps. Philippe entered then, ashen-faced and weak. Christine rose to permit him the place beside his brother. He ignored her presence entirely.

"How did you find him?" he demanded of the maidservant.

"Like this, on the doorstep," she replied, twisting her apron in nervousness. "Someone had knocked and run away. I was only up for-"

"Did you catch a glimpse of the man?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Was there a note?"

She shook her head again. "No, monsieur. No sign of anyone."

Christine clutched her wrist. "We sent for a doctor?" she asked frailly.

They both turned to her in absolute silence, then Philippe dismissed her question with an obvious "yes, of course." He sat down on the bed beside his brother and clasped his hand. Raoul smiled weakly.

Christine went to the side. It was a place she had grown well accustomed to. At parties or even during conversations, she found her way into a quiet corner, trying desperately to blend in with the wallpaper. Raoul was the only one who ever wanted her there. It had been evident from the first day, when the servants had ignored her presence entirely unless otherwise told by Raoul. Had she been a mistress, had she been demanding like Carlotta, shrill like Sorelli, they would have given her respect- the guests, the servants, even members of the family. Her gentle nature, however, had been abused without restraint.

"Where is Christine?" Raoul asked Philippe, who kept glancing downstairs, fancying he heard the doctor arriving, be it the rhythm of horse-hooves or a faint knock at the door that could have been nothing but wind.

Christine went towards the bed as Raoul asked for her again. Philippe stood up in silence, admitting her. She resumed her earlier position, though her earlier tears had by then dried to a paste on her cheeks.

"Did he take you away from us?" she asked as she brushed back a golden curl from his forehead.

"No... no," he replied, reaching up to rest his hand on her wrist. "I don't know... who took me."

"He could have arranged for it, though."

"No. It was not... him. I know... him. He is gone. You needn't... worry about him. You're safe."

"I'm not so concerned about myself... I hope the doctor brings good news."

She kissed his forehead. Time stood still. An hour felt like a day, so much so that she glanced out the window to see if the sun had risen yet. She watched him lie back in fatigue on the bed to rest, then smile weakly at her, say something nearly inaudible, before relaxing into the bed again.

"Philippe," he said hoarsely as Christine stared out the window at the night sky. His features tightened in distress. "Christine, Philippe."

She glanced back at Philippe in confusion. Smoke issued from the corner of his mouth. She had not even noticed that he had lit a pipe, likely an attempt to calm his nerves. He removed it from his lips as the bitter scent began to burn her nostrils.

"It's fine," she told Raoul. "I don't mind it, anything that would calm one-"

"He shouldn't," he replied, coughing from his aggravation. "It's not... r-respectful-"

"Raoul, not now, just rest-"

"I'll step out," Philippe said stiffly, heading out into the hallway.

"Has he been... kind?" Raoul asked once he had left.

"There are more pressing matters," she replied.

He reached out to touch the tips of her fingers. "No... there are not."

She entwined their hands, then kissed the back of his. "All I care about at the moment is you... I-I thought... so many terrible things, after everything, I thought..."

"It wasn't him. He... he saved me."

"Raoul, he could have been deceiving you-"

"No... no, I know what happened. He was violent... w-with the men, bound them, threw a... an odd sort of rope about their necks, n-not like he did with me... this was a weapon. It was... frightening, but he saved me. A murderer saved me... I don't know what to think."

"Don't think," she replied as her mind wandered to the impossible. "Try to sleep, my dear."

She kissed his forehead. It was damp with sweat. A knock came at the front door just then, pursued by hurried footsteps. She sighed in relief.

"That must be the doctor," she whispered as she rose from the side of the bed. "I had better leave."

"You... try to sleep, too," he replied, managing to twist his ashen features into a smile.

"I will," she lied, smiling back as best she could.

Instead, she went to pace out in the hall while the doctor and Philippe spoke inside. The walls were covered in emerald wallpaper with a design reminiscent of scales. Along them hung paintings of long-dead relatives, stretching down the length of the hall. One caught her eye. It was Raoul's grandmother. Christine had seen her many times while passing through this hallway, but only now did it intrigue her. The Countess wore a gown of pale lavender and pearls around her white neck. The soft brushstrokes made the necklace glow, and sculpted in the same light were the woman's proud features. The softness of Raoul's blue eyes were in hers, though her gaze was icy. It was as if she stared at Christine with disdain, glaring down her hooked nose at this opera singer daring to wed her grandson.

The door opened behind her. She spun around towards it and found the doctor leaving the room, black valise in hand. Philippe went out into the hallway a moment after, practically chewing his pipe.

"Is he going to be all right?" Christine asked, twisting her hands about her wrists with worry.

Philippe stared at her for a moment, as if confused at why she was addressing him. "He appears to be suffering from terrible conditions more than from an illness," he explained. "It is little more than a cold... He is asleep now, so don't disturb him."

"Then he will be fine?"

"He should be," he said, resuming his pipe-chewing, "according to the doctor."

She clasped her hands near her heart and stared up at the ceiling. "Oh, thank God! I was so worried that he might have an infection, or something horrible, but he's fine... oh, thank God..."

"Where is the man who brought him?" Philippe asked calmly, as if they were having a friendly chat over tea.

The blood drained from her face. "Monsieur?"

"Who brought him?"

"I-I don't know. How could I know? Why would you even ask me such a thing?"

His eyes narrowed, but fixated upon his pipe again. A plume of smoke issued from the corner of his mouth.

"I had hoped you might know," he said. "Perhaps I had hoped you might have played a part in it."

"In the kidnapping of my fiancé-?"

"He is not your fiancé!" Philippe snapped. He took a breath to steady himself. "He is confused, that is what he is, confused at what is best for him and our family. We've been the center of enough scandal as it is."

"H-he spoke to you, though, about it. He told me he had, and you had agreed... He lied to me?"

"Do you want to have this conversation now?" he demanded, accusing her with the end of his pipe. "When my brother has just come back from the grave?"

"And _my_ fiancé-"

"Not your lover, though. You never call him your lover, or your beloved, anything of the sort. 'My fiancé,'" he said, mocking her voice. "Do you want to have our conversation now, then?"

"What matters, now or later? What have you to say that I do not already know?"

"Then here it is: you shall never marry my brother. I had hoped he would grow tired of you. I wanted to be kind and let his love run dry rather than forbid him from seeing you. He is a young man, so therefore given to short-lived passions... I'm not my father, but I am practically his, so I must take care of him. I thought if I let you two spend a few nights together, live together a couple months, he would realize he was not truly in love with you, or he would fall out of it. That was, of course, incorrect on my part. He is mad for you. It is perplexing. You have nothing of any real value to him. You have a pretty face and a pretty voice," he said, gesturing to her visage with a wave of his hand, "nothing more. When those run out, he will not love you, but I'm not willing to let him throw his life away, not when it seems so much more precious now."

Her shawl slipped from her shoulders and she pulled it back up, staring at the floorboards. He drank in a bit of tobacco before sighing.

"It gives me no pleasure," he admitted. "I know you are not some mistress out for his wealth and title, as he has planned on eloping for some time now."

"How do you know that?"

"Because you have driven him mad, and that is the obvious solution to his problem."

"I have not driven anyone mad. If anything, you have driven _me_ mad. Everyone here drives me mad! I had no comfort when Raoul was taken, no one save the Girys, and you had just had me moved into an old guest room a few weeks ago, so I was quite alone, thinking I would never see the man I loved again-!"

"Spare me, mademoiselle. I have endured the same. I have no father, and my sisters did not even know of this. I hadn't the heart to tell them... and spare me that you love my brother."

Her watery eyes burned. "What on earth do you mean?"

"You do not love my brother. You are a sister to him. That is how you two behave, like dear friends, or brother and sister. Children playing games. Your kisses are in secret, and your bedroom doors are locked. You do not love my brother."

"There is more to love than going to bed with a man."

"Are you still pure?"

Her face burned. "Excuse me, monsieur?"

"Oh, none of that. You don't mean to think I would believe such a ruse."

"You humiliate me," she said, her cheeks burning with indignity. "You and everyone else in this miserable place-"

"Then leave. Why do you stay?"

She faltered, then replied in a small, rather lost voice, "I have nowhere else to go."

"Then you do not stay because of my brother?"

"No, no, yes, of course, that too-"

"I've heard enough," he interrupted, holding his hand up to stop her. "I want you to return to the opera house. If you require a sum, I can provide a few thousand francs."

"Monsieur, I cannot sing on that stage again."

"Why not?"

"Because of all that transpired there, of course."

"Then find somewhere else that will take you. I'm certain they would be quite keen."

"You don't understand. I cannot sing again."

"You were giving my niece lessons the other day in secret. You sang then."

"I cannot _sing_ , monsieur," she insisted, desperate for him to understand her meaning, when she hardly understood it herself.

"Then find some other trade," he retorted simply, oblivious, "or some other man. You may depart here tonight with ten thousand francs or be forced out with nothing. Your choice."

"While your brother is still so terribly ill?"

His eyes clouded over, and he tapped his pipe on his thigh. "Perhaps that is unwise... You may remain here three days. The fourth, you pack your things and go before the morning."

Her upper lip quivered, then stiffened. "All right, monsieur. I suppose there is nothing for me here, if you are so intent on despising me and poisoning others against me. You must love your brother very much to send away his fiancée just after he was returned to us from death. But, Monsieur le Comte, I will go away, and abide by your wishes. This is your house, and I am clearly unwelcome. I will then depart."

"We are agreed. I shall write a cheque-"

"I refuse any sum of money. This is of my own volition, not yours... Goodnight, monsieur."

She turned on her heels, her head held high as she went to her room. The Comte stared at his grandmother's portrait for a moment, pensive, then he went into Raoul's bedroom. The door shut in his wake. Christine gave a start at the harsh sound.

Her eyes welled up with tears again, and her proud demeanor dissolved. She shuffled back down to her room. Beneath the bed was a locked trunk that she had brought her possessions in. It was too cumbersome for her to lift, though. A servant would be required.

She began to pack away her things, or rather stuff them in her anger. Dresses and stockings were pounded down atop each other in her distress. She would not spend another minute in this cruel place, no, she would live with the Girys and come visit during the day.

There was nothing for her now. Raoul had become everything to her. She never felt afraid when with him, never felt unloved. That was all she wanted now, for the rest of her life, that safety and surety. She wanted every day planned, every moment known. There had been too much instability in her life for her to long for anything but a firm foundation. Raoul had been that foundation... and now he was not.

She slammed shut the suitcase, then sat down on it to fasten the latches.

There was one dress left. She had placed it on the bed, sprawled out and lonely. It had been her first gift from Raoul. It was deep blue, with thin white stripes on the fabric. The edges were lace, the buttons glass. When the last was pulled through, she glanced out her window, tilting her head in curiosity. There was a yellow note shoved under the windowpane. She removed it, and it read two words, scribbled hastily: _the maze._

He thought she trusted him enough to go see him? Alone? After everything that had happened between them? She tore apart the note with fervor, though her eyes watered at the action, and the center of her chest burned.

She pushed the window open, letting the cool breeze brush against her. The yellow pieces of paper slipped into its grasp, and she watched as they were carried away.

Why would he need to speak with her again? And why should she let him? He had returned Raoul to her, yes, but what of the two men buried beneath the earth?

Curiosity got the better of her. She placed a cloak about her shoulders, then fastened a leather strap around her thigh to secure a knife. She had taken up wearing one under her skirt like la Sorelli, perhaps mostly by Raoul's insistence that she feel safe at any time. It certainly was a sharp little knife, so it helped her greatly, not that she would ever use it. Its only purpose was to make her feel safe.

Once her boots had been laced, she wandered out onto the grounds. They were budding with spring. A few lilies were sprouting in front of the house, and the rosebushes were being well-tended to as they blossomed. She had seen the estate in the summer, and it was a sight to behold then, lush and green, with bright colors sprinkled about. There were hydrangeas there, a bit of daisies over there, geraniums, lilac, violets, all in a magnificent array around marble fountains and white swings.

The darkness here now, though, made her heart race faster, and she withdrew the knife to hold it in her hand for protection. She wanted to believe he was being honest, but she could not risk putting her faith in it.

"Monsieur?" she called as she reached the hedge maze.

"Put the knife down," said a voice that had seemingly crept into her ear.

She gave a start, turning around to find the source of the sound in the darkness. "I have it for security is all."

"And the candlestick before, I assume?"

Her eyes widened in memory. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have- I was frightened is all. Did I hurt you? I-it isn't bad, is it?"

"No."

"Oh, good... I'm very sorry for that, but you understand why I have resorted to arming myself?"

"I do... but you can trust me now. I returned him to you... Is he well?"

"He has a cold is all, they said."

He made a noise of dissatisfaction. "One can never trust doctors, though..."

She glanced around again. "Where are you?"

"I don't present myself to people with knives."

"You have no reason to fear it if you don't intend to harm me."

"I would never harm you," he said softly.

She faltered, her eyes stinging. "I know that... I-I hope that, I mean, but I can't trust you. I want to with every fiber of my being, but I can't, even when you have returned Raoul to me, I simply can't."

"Then trust me in spite of it."

"And risk being taken away?"

"They would hear you scream, wouldn't they?"

She sighed, glancing down at the cold weapon in her hand. "Show yourself, in the open, and then I will put it down."

He was silent. Her heart froze in fear that he might have left, but there he appeared where the maze forked, a dark, slim figure in a mask. The knife fell to the ground.

"What do you need to say?" she asked.

"I fear all is not well with you," he replied, remaining where he was. He placed his hand atop a hedge and ran his digits through the leaves. "I promised myself I would not leave until I knew your future was secure... Is it secure?"

She shut her eyes in pain. "That remains to be seen."

His hand fell back to his side. "What do you mean?"

"The Comte has sent me away. A mere moment ago, he let his mind be known to me, no doubt propelled by Raoul's return from death, and now there is no possibility of our marriage. There never was, however much we hoped, never. I was a fool to think otherwise."

"You could elope."

"But that would mean tearing Raoul away from his family, his life. Love cannot make up for that," she said, all the melancholy bitterness inside her welling up at her continued admission of defeat. "I should have known that. I'm a chorus girl, and Raoul is a vicomte."

"You are not a chorus girl," Erik argued, his jaw tightening. "You are the most celebrated soprano in Paris, and had your career continued, you could have had the world at your feet."

She shook her head. "That means nothing, but even so, not now. I don't think I can ever be that, after everything. My passion is all... dried out. It feels like that, and there's no spark to light it... The Comte offered to help me come back into the opera house, he told me he would, but I don't think I can do it, what with all those memories there, and the gossip my return would cause. I'm surrounded in gossip and scandal now, and the truth has been twisted so terribly."

"Then you can be celebrated somewhere else," he offered, his mind reeling at the thought of her being overtaken by another on the stage. "What about London?"

She made a face. "London? Paris is bad enough."

"Then what do you want?" he asked.

The moonlight danced off her pensive features. He suddenly ached for her touch, the barest trace of warmth. For a moment, a pale shadow passed so boldly over her that her curls lit like white flames and her eyes like stars. Before he could contain himself, he found himself nearing her, until he reached out and brushed his hand against her cheek.

She shoved him away with both her hands, crossing her arms about herself. Where he had touched burned like coals. Each deft fingertip had branded her. As he recoiled in shame at her reaction, she trembled with a sudden onslaught of tears. He stood there, bound in confusion.

"Oh, you miserable man!" she said through tears, burying her head in her hands. "You miserable, miserable man, why must it be like this? We both want what we cannot have!"

"Then I will give you the vicomte," he insisted, desperate to calm her and make her forget his ignorance, "and I will be as happy as you then."

"I can't have Raoul," she replied, shaking her head. "I told you, I can't! The Comte is right. I c-can't have him, and moreover, I won't."

"Why not? You are more than deserving of it."

Her mouth fell open in protest. "You treat Raoul like he is a thing, an 'it,' not a 'he.'"

"If I treated him like a man he would be dead," he stated simply. "He is the means to an end, that is all, the only end that matters in this world... Like you, I have no ear for music anymore, no inspiration. I have been sitting at an empty desk for days on end, thinking I might see your marriage in the papers, so that I could leave this place forever and find some form of peace. I waited and waited in the dark, and nothing came, except news of the vicomte's kidnapping. So I acted... There is nothing for me but your life, lived fully, with anything your heart desires. I want nothing more."

She was silent for a moment, pensive as she wiped away her remaining tears. Why was he suddenly understanding? Honest, even? He could not possibly be lying to her now, but could he, who had been concerned with nothing but himself before, now only seek out the happiness of another? That was impossible. Such a change could not happen overnight.

It was then that she realized there was nothing she wanted more at that moment than comfort. She had gone days alone in a room, weeping for her dearest friend's possible death, each day making it more and more certain. Now her angel- for what else could she call him?- had returned him to her. Her heart was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion and she wrapped her arms about him without a thought given to the intimacy of the action.

He stepped back, quite bewildered at this sudden show of affection from the same woman who had tried to beat him with a candlestick before and brought a knife when she came to meet him. The sensation of warmth, of pressure, and the softness of her body, overwhelmed him. Then, gradually, feeling drained back down from his heart to his numb fingertips. She sighed against his chest, then choked on a sob.

Was he supposed to hold her, too? Where? She had wrapped her arms about him with such ease, quite used to the sensation of comfort. He merely stood there, hardly daring to breathe. Eventually his arms found their way about her middle in a way that felt somewhat right. She did not pull away, so that meant it was at least respectful.

He did not have long to savor her touch, as she dropped her arms back down from him and pulled away, like she had caught herself in some terrible act. Her eyes sought out his, her hands clasped in front of her.

There had always been something pulling her to this man, tying her to him, without any hope of ever breaking the bonds. It had fastened her feet to the wet stone floor in the depths of the opera house as he commanded her to leave. It was this indescribable force that made her speak to him now about matters so heavy on her heart. She spoke to a murderer, a liar, a thief, and yet she searched for more within his eyes. They had always reflected his true emotions, and she saw misery in their depths, so much misery, and yet hope remained. The flames that had so consumed him were now suffocating embers. It hurt to look so deeply into his eyes and see all this, yet find herself unable to mend it.

"We could have been such good friends," she said softly, breaking the silence. "Such wonderful friends..."

"We were friends."

"I was friends with an Angel of Music, not you. I didn't know you until today."

"Today?"

"Today is the first time I have seen you without being in a trance and without death looming over us both, in some fashion..."

"But why won't you marry the boy?" he insisted again, knowing there must be more to this whole affair. "Why do you act as if you're undeserving?"

She looked up at the stars for a moment, though he could not tell whether she was deep in thought or ignoring him.

"Christine?" he asked again.

"Philippe told me what could happen," she said, pinching the soft fabric of her skirt and rubbing it between her fingertips. "That Raoul might not have his inheritance or respectability, and when I think about it, imagine how many people could be affected. Even his sisters might be. I know nothing of all this Comte and Vicomte etiquette, about how our marriage would actually be interpreted. Perhaps I didn't want to know. I thought little would change, but now..." She shook her head. "I won't take anything from him. Love is giving, not taking."

"Then what will you do, if you do not marry the boy, and do not return to the stage?"

"I don't know. That is all I can say. I simply don't know. All I want now is simple life, really. I've had my share of adventure, traveling from place to place, full of passion and nothing else. But I've also felt fear, and pain. My life this past year was tumultuous and torturous, so now I only want something ordinary and simple."

"What about music?" he demanded, his pulse roaring in his ears at what she must mean. "You would give that up for some boring man to have children with?"

"In case you have forgotten, I am not captive to you anymore," she retorted with fervor. "I can marry a boring man and bear him twelve children if I see fit."

"And do you?"

She was silent for a moment, then she moaned, burying her head in her hands. "Of course not. You know me. Oh, perhaps I don't know what I want anymore. It's all so mangled up..."

"Then tell me what you don't want."

She peeked out from her arms at him, her eyes lighting in surprise. Then she glanced back up at the sky. A quizzical expression came over her features as she shook her head.

"Why am I telling you all this?" she asked.

"You're accustomed to doing so," he replied.

"You haven't been my angel for almost a year now."

"Almost... but you confided everything in me then."

She colored vividly. "I did... and you never gave me so much as your name."

He faltered. They stared out across the trail of hedges for a moment, wary of each other's piercing gaze, as if it might uncover their respective secrets.

"Erik."

"What?" she asked, her eyes lighting.

"That is my name... at least... I would say it is."

 _Erik,_ she mouthed, considering the name upon her tongue. How peculiar...

"Are you Scandinavian?" she asked.

"I found the name and took it," he replied.

She gave up her curiosity. "Thank you for telling me."

"Now tell me, what don't you want?"

"Well..." she started uneasily, clasping her hands repeatedly. "I don't want to be alone. I don't want to... go unheard, or be ignored. I don't want to be called a child or treated as if my mind is not as adept as others'..."

"And you want...?"

"Love," she said simply, pain in her eyes. "That's what everyone wants, isn't it? Love. I want the respect of it, the understanding, the kindness. To be listened to and heard..."

"What about music?"

"It is second to love. I would take love in place of music always... I'm sure you would agree."

He turned away for a moment to think. Could he love her like she wanted? He had thought himself incapable, but when she spoke so plainly about it... Why, couldn't he listen to her? Be kind? Respect her? He worshiped the ground she walked on, surely he could give her all that, surely. And no one understood her as he did, that was certain, not that boy, the one she had now said was no longer her fiancé.

"I could love you," he admitted, the words tumbling from his lips. He stiffened in fear of her reaction. Instead, her features softened, from her bright eyes to her pink mouth.

"I can't, Erik," she replied softly. "Please don't say that again to me. It hurts too much."

Hurts? he wanted to ask, confused by her meaning. Why should his love hurt her? If anything, it should make her happy to be loved. Perhaps she did not understand the depth of it.

As he considered this, the weight of a thought, one Christine had not even dared to admit to herself, grew leaden within her chest. Could she love this man? It was unthinkable. Then why did speaking to him feel so natural? She could confess anything to him and not feel scrutinized or judged. Why, also, did she continue to seek him out despite his errs?

Erik was oblivious to her thoughts, now trying to enjoy his proximity to her again, but profoundly affected by her words. He would have to convince her to stay on at the opera house. There was nothing else for her. And the idea of an ordinary marriage! What was she thinking? He would be better than that for her, even. She ought to know that.

"I never said thank you," she said suddenly, "for bringing Raoul back to me, alive and well, so thank you. We thought he was dead. A-at least... I did. I thought you had taken him in order to take me back, and I nearly went to find you, but... At least everything is fine now... in a sense..." She turned to face him fully, finding his eyes through his mask. "But why _did_ someone kidnap him?"

"They wanted justice against the upper class, and seemed to think kidnapping a vicomte would help them, in some odd way."

"But the de Chagny are very generous to the poor. Raoul's sister even started an orphanage in Lyon... But there was no ransom. That struck us all as odd, and Philippe most of all, as he would have given away his entire fortune to save his brother."

"The kidnappers were waiting for things to... cool, so to speak."

"Oh... I suppose that makes sense." She continued fidgeting with the fabric of her dress, then she glanced back over at him. "Where are you going after this, if you mind me asking?"

"Belgium."

"Why Belgium?"

"Why not?"

She smiled weakly. "Why not...? I hope you find something there for yourself."

"There is nothing..."

Her smile faded. "When will you leave?"

"When you are happy."

The fabric fell from her hands as her features turned stony in decision. "I want you to leave tonight, and let me decide my future, happy or not. You shouldn't linger here, either. I couldn't bear to see you caught and tried and-"

"You don't know me very well, then.

"Well, no, I don't..." She glanced back towards the house. A candle was lit in Raoul's window. "I should return. I only have a few days left before I have to tell him some kind lie rather than fracture his relationship with his brother even further... Thank you, Erik. I hope you can start again somewhere."

"No rushed marriages," he insisted as she turned to leave. "Do you hear me? You deserve better than some boring man."

"I was only thinking aloud. But I can do whatever I please, you know. I'm a free woman... I won't marry a man who doesn't respect me, though, and who doesn't love me. That I promise you."

She turned to leave, and Erik stopped her again, this time grabbing her arm.

"Do you want to run away?" he asked.

"Erik-"

"Do you?"

Her eyes fixated on the toes of her boots.

"Not with you," she replied.

"Why not with me?"

Her eyes softened as they met his. "I don't trust you enough. That's the truth of it."

"Perhaps you could, though."

"Let go of me," she asked, her fear betraying her attempt to remain calm.

He hesitated. He couldn't lose her again, not now-

"Erik, let go of me this instant!" she demanded.

He released her swiftly. She turned round, wanting nothing more than to flee, to race off into the remaining shadows, but instead, she turned back to him. Her eyes were all at once conflicted with a thousand emotions, as turbulent as a hurricane.

"Meet me here in three days," she said, "a-at midnight. I need time to consider... but that doesn't mean I will accept."

His lips parted, starting at the thinner corner until the lopsided part fell slack as well. "Then I'll do my best not to hope... How can I trust you, though?"

"I expect we've both had enough of lies by now. I can't fathom causing you any more pain than you've already endured... Goodbye, Erik."

He formed the words, but no sound issued as she disappeared back into the house. His senses were alive with hope, the bright hope that only Christine could light within him.

He started back home, trying to dispel his marvelous imaginings.

She would never accept, though. He beat this into himself, _she would never accept!_

Christine, meanwhile, was in her bedroom, the door of which had been bolted to conceal her rapid pulse. Once she had steadied herself, she began to unpack her trunk. Three more days here, then she would leave, in some fashion.

How she had wanted normalcy! How she had craved it of late! But when he had said, quite simply, "run away," it excited her to trembling. _Run away._ The great human solution.

She had three days to decide her life.


	3. Chapter 3: The Ring

Christine spent two nights tossing and turning, tormented by dark dreams. In them, she was standing at the edge of a lake, black and smooth as ink. The surface was a perfect mirror, and she bent over to look at herself, bound by an insatiable curiosity. Before she could make out a single feature, she fell into the water, which had become turbulent as a stormy sea. Lightning crackled in the air. There was no one around her, but she could hear a voice. It echoed over the waves. She cried out for the source in vain as she swam, and then she would fall under a wave, every time, be pulled down into the depths, and promptly wake up in a cold sweat, with the bedsheets twisted around her legs.

Raoul remarked that she seemed tired. That was all. Tired. And yes, she was very tired. Her mind was exhausting itself trying to decide the rest of her life. For the chance to regain her love and freedom, would she risk losing both? But here she would live monotonously, and whatever she said about wanting an ordinary, simple life, her heart was not in it, only her weary mind. She only wanted peace.

The thought of peace brought her to Erik. She saw him where she thought he must be: in some dark hiding place, pacing before a clock, wringing his heart dry with hope. She had only three days and she already knew he was in agony.

It upset her greatly that she had given him such hope, and perhaps she ought to leave with him for that reason alone. But then, there were so many things that could go wrong, so many that ought to be considered. Three days were not enough to figure out all those possibilities. Why, Erik could be lying to her still. That made very little sense after what she had seen, but it was certainly possible. If not that, then perhaps he planned, in some twisted way, to appease her by returning Raoul, then he would take her away with him as a reward for his actions.

She wanted to believe he was telling the truth, that the man she had seen last night who had risked his life to save Raoul, his enemy, was Erik, the real Erik, not the man in the white mask and black cloak, each part of him carefully prepared, but _Erik_. If he was that, if she could know he was that, then she would leave with him. The fact was, though, she could not know. There was no possibility for any certainty in this endeavor.

The moral side of it was even more challenging than her own wants. Was it correct to go run off with a murderer, even if he was remorseful and had been forced into such a trade? Under the law, he should be captured and killed for his crimes. She would be letting him go free either way, so that crime had already been committed in full. What was the difference going with him? But she could not possibly leave with a murderer! It was unthinkable! On paper, that sentence would have a simple answer. He had been mistreated, though, unloved. Perhaps once given the opportunity to be himself for once, not an opera ghost or angel of music, he could be very different. They could be good friends.

She nearly spit out her tea at the thought, as if Erik would be content to only be her friend. Raoul sat up in bed.

"Are you quite well?" he asked. "You've been so quiet recently."

"I'm fine," she replied, placing her teacup on the beside table before adjusting her hand under her chin. "This book is interesting."

"I assume so, if you were actually reading it..." He folded his hands over the quilted bedsheets. "Tell me what the trouble is."

"I'm honestly fine, Raoul. Three days ago I thought you were dead is all."

"Well, I'm not. Why should that be troubling you so much now?"

She was silent, considering the best way to answer without arousing his concern. The words on the page swam in her vision.

"Is it _him?_ " he asked.

"Not him," she replied hastily. "I give him no thought-"

"I wasn't accusing you, I only meant... You can't give a man who had that much say in your life no thought, and the same who rescued me, for some reason..." He placed his hand upon her wrist. "Won't you talk to me now?"

"There is nothing to _say_."

"Nothing? We have hardly spoken. You're shut up in your room all day and night, hardly eating... I'm worried about you. Do you think I'm going to be taken away again?"

"No."

"Do you think you're going to be taken away?"

"No."

He rested his head back on the carved wood, his eyes cloudy with thought.

"You would hide things from me that might hurt me," he said. "I've always loved how much you care, but I want to know why you are afraid. Even if it kills me, I want to know."

She pretended to be reading her book, though her eyes hardly blinked as they began to water.

"Did you see him that night?" he asked. "Answer me. Did you see him? You said to me- I remember it plainly- you said, 'I know' when I told you who had brought me here."

"You were feverish-"

"I want your honest answer. Did you see him that night?"

She licked her lips, then sucked in a gasp of air. "Yes, Raoul. I saw him."

"Y-you did? But you never said-"

"If I told Philippe then people would be after him in greater numbers. I won't have him dead."

"I know... I know, but... How did you see him?"

"Out my window."

"He came around the side of the house?" he asked in alarm.

"He must have. Perhaps I was hallucinating, though. I hadn't slept. I must have been hallucinating-"

"Why would he do that, though? Was I with him?"

"No."

"Then why would he come around that way? Unless... unless he was trying to find..."

"Raoul-"

"Have mercy, Christine, you did make a deal with the devil, didn't you?" he exclaimed, suddenly white with panic. "Tell me the truth! I have a right to know if you are safe!"

"No, you do not have a right to know, you are not my husband!" she retorted, slamming shut her book and throwing it aside. "But no, I made no deals. I found you as everyone else did, and I saw Erik come around-"

"What?"

She blinked twice. Her scalp froze over.

"He has a name?" Raoul asked. "Since when did he have a name?"

"Listen-"

"You spoke to him. H-he told you his name, why would he tell you his name?"

"Well, why would he not?"

"But when did you learn it? I haven't heard you mention his name before, not once."

She faltered, unable to lie but unable to tell the truth. With her best dramatic, simpering tone, she said, "Please, this is upsetting me. I don't like talking about him."

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he crooned in reply, reaching out to caress her hand. "Not at all... But I think you should stay in the room next to mine now, since we have seen him. We can lock the windows and-"

"I won't be here tomorrow, dear."

His mouth fell open. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing like that, I only... I'm going away for a little while, to find another opera house. I decided it was what's best for me."

"Philippe decided, you mean. He told you we can't be married, didn't he?" His blue eyes widened with clarity. "That's why you've been so upset. Well, don't listen to him, my dear, we can be married without his approval quite easily-"

"No we _can't_ Raoul," she sighed miserably as she rose to walk about the room. "We _can't_ be married. That _is_ what troubles me now. Not Erik, not the opera house, but our impossible marriage."

He was silent, his chest heaving. Scalding tears crept into her eyes but she shook her head to keep them pent up inside.

"Why can't we be married?" he asked in a frail voice. "Do you not... love me, or-?"

"Oh, Raoul, I love you with all of me," she insisted as she came to sit beside him on the bed. She stroked the curls back from his forehead. "I do love you, I promise... but... that means I love you too much to do this to you."

"What has he told you?" he demanded, pulling back the covers as he started to get out of bed. "It's a lie, whatever it is-"

"Raoul, _please_ ," she insisted as she placed her hand on his chest and pushed him back down. "Rest. This is my decision, for your own good."

He took her hand and held it in his, caressing the back of it. "What good?"

"You need a wife who can be a vicomtesse, and maybe eventually a comtesse. Someone who is respected by not just you, but everyone. Who can order servants around and keep relatives and friends content, give you children-"

"You can learn those things, though, all of them. And we will have children, won't we?"

She averted her eyes and tugged at her embroidered sleeve. "I don't want children yet. I told you before, quietly, to be sure you knew, but you brushed it off like I would change my mind, so that is another reason why I would not make a suitable wife for a man in your position-"

"I can wait for children. I can wait for anything for you."

"But you need someone more stable than me, too, someone you can depend on," she insisted, withdrawing her gaze. "I've been through things this past year that I fear might never go away. I might always be looking over my shoulder for something that isn't there. I can never be what you need me to be."

"All I need is you, as you are-"

"And what if your inheritance is stripped away?" she demanded, throwing her hands up in the air. "What if your friends abandon you because you're married to a chorus girl?"

"I was a sailor, Christine," he said, smiling cautiously in amusement. "All my friends don't care whom I marry. They're out searching for the North Pole this instant, anyway, and, quite frankly, I might not see them again for months, if ever. And if my inheritance is stripped away by my own family, then, well, we can move to Norway and live in a fishing village the rest of our lives. I don't care. As long as I have you, I don't care."

She shook her head. "I can't let you give up your life for me again. I won't do it... It is my final decision, and I need you to respect it as such. I cannot be convinced otherwise, my dear... H-here is your ring back."

She extended the gold band to him. The white stone glittered in the candlelight, and he stared at it lifelessly.

"I will take it," he whispered, his voice choked with tears, "if you admit that you never truly loved me."

"That would be a lie."

"Then why is it so easy for you to do this?"

"It is not easy!" she exclaimed indignantly. "It is impossible! I can't bear it. I tell you, I can't! But I will if it means you can have everything you deserve."

"Deserve? You deserve to be a vicomtesse, that's what you deserve! There are no kind women like you at those parties I go to, not one! All they care about is wealth and looks! I have not met one woman who I could stand from my rank of society. If you want me to find another like you, know that it is impossible. I will live the rest of my life a bachelor, just like Philippe, if you leave me."

"Don't say such a thing. How can you say such a thing to me? There will be someone else whom your brother will approve of-"

"What does his approval matter? He would much more approve of me having ten mistresses than marrying one chorus girl."

"Then go and have ten mistresses. Keep your fortune and title and be free to love whomever you choose."

"I'm not like my brother, Christine," he pleaded, reaching out for her hand and holding it to his aching heart. "I'm... I'm soft. He was raised by my father, who was demanding and coarse, but me... He raised me with every comfort, almost like a girl. That was why I became a sailor, because he realized I needed to become a man... but I want a simple life. I don't want mistresses and riches, only you, wherever we can be."

"There is nowhere we can be."

"Admit that you don't love me the way I love you, then."

"Raoul-"

"And I don't mean would you die for me. You would die for a street urchin, my dear, and that is why I love you... Why do you love _me?_ "

She faltered, then set the glittering band on his marble-topped beside table. Her heart was heavy in her chest.

"I love you because you have always been there for me," she said, a lump forming in her throat. "Whenever I needed you, you were there, without being asked, sometimes even without being wanted, but always needed. You do everything in your power to keep me safe, give me all of you... You are the handsomest man I have ever met, with a heart as big as the sea, but..." she took a breath for courage, "though I would give up my life to save you... I-I would not give up my life... to _marry_ you."

His broken expression drove her to tears, and she fled the room rather than drive the knife harder into his heart. She had tried to be kind, she had tried to keep him from hating his brother, but her words had cut in spite of it all. The truth always hurt more profoundly than a lie, of which she had only truly told one: that Philippe had not told her anything.

...

Erik paced in his apartment, if it could be called such. It was a hole was all, with a threadbare rug in the center that had been perhaps once crimson, but had now worn down to a pale rust-red. His desk sat in the corner, for once in his life neat and tidy. The pen lay beside the inkwell, the papers were blank and in a neat stack, all save one in the center of the table. It was lined. It was ready to be dotted, for key signatures to be added. Imagine! He had not even added signatures yet, much less notes! But then, without a piano, that was a bit more of a challenge. He still had his violin, though, but it had been kept concealed in its coal-black case all week. He was too restless for music.

Tonight he would find out Christine's answer. The trouble was coping with it. He knew she would never agree. Perhaps she was trying to be kind was all, as she often tended to do. It was not kind, though. It only prolonged his agony.

The temptation to simply steal her away had lessened, though it remained in the back of his mind, coiled up like a snake. A bit of chloroform, under the cover of darkness, no one would know. He reeled at the idea, but why did it not cease hissing in his ear? It reminded him of who he was, so he let it be, as some sort of cruel punishment.

He had not eaten that day. His breakfast still sat out on the worn table by the poster of _Hannibal_ that he had stolen from the opera: Christine's first triumph. He could still hear her when she sang onstage for the first time, and when the entire audience stood silence in shock and wonder, as if in the presence of an angel. They had been. Then, when they had overcome their ecstasy, the roar of applause had commenced like thunder.

What he would not give to hear her sing one last time...

The clock ticked at the rate of molasses crawling out of a spoon. He watched it, paced, watched, paced, tried to eat a bit of hard baguette and jam, paced anew, and so on. It was a weary existence. His heart thudded with anticipation, but mostly with fear. She would refuse his offer. She had to refuse it. He did not deserve her.

Ah, but then he nearly dug his mask into his face! Even if she agreed to run away, what did that mean? She could simply want him to install her at another opera house, then leave her be again, or perhaps keep him as a muse and friend. The latter was a fine thought, yes, but he knew he would never be comfortable with such an arrangement. He loved her. Madly. If she did indeed want to remain his friend for the rest of her life, nothing more, he would have to leave her. That was the worst part of all of it. Whatever answer she gave, he only wanted the one she would not: that she would be his wife. That she would never leave, that she would love him, and that he could love her, freely and openly. All that money he had accumulated had been sitting in a few banks in Belgium, looked over by the leech he had to care for there year after year. He ought to have a fortune by now, though. If only that would impress her, but he knew it would not. Still, the thought of buying her dresses and trinkets as they traveled around Europe in search of a suitable place for her, that was exquisite! To hold her hand, perhaps, to be called by a name, spoken to as a friend... Yes, he would be content with that.

It would never happen, though. Never.

...

Raoul deteriorated. Philippe had heard their conversation earlier and been quite pleased with it, however much his heart ached for his brother, but now he was not so certain. The doctor came that evening to ascertain if the vicomte was still suffering from merely a cold or if it was something worse.

"Melancholy," he said simply. "Nothing a bit of fresh air won't remedy, perhaps an excursion to the countryside or the sea would do him well."

"Of course," Philippe replied as Raoul stared blankly at the wall. "We can leave as soon as possible."

"I would expect melancholy after what he endured, however short it lasted... Good day, monsieur le Comte."

He left promptly with his black valise full of instruments. Raoul continued staring at the wall, but his gaze hardened and his lips grew white.

"Why can I not marry Christine?" he demanded, not meeting his brother's eyes.

"Because it is not done, not in this family."

"You would allow it. You just refuse because our father would not have-"

"I don't give a damn what our father would have done," Philippe snapped. "Now, if you were older, if you had more say in your life, you could marry whomever you wanted, though still not without facing scrutiny. But your life has barely begun. If you just found a well-bred woman-"

"Why do you hate Christine?"

"I do not hate her. She is simply not what I want for you."

"I dare you to find a woman as kind as her, as strong as her, from any respectable family."

"The de Loire have a fine young daughter-"

"I love Christine, Philippe," he pleaded. "I love her. You love Sorelli, don't you?"

"I love her, yes, but not as one should love a _wife_. If you insist on having Christine, though, she could be your mistress, practically a wife to you if you choose. I wouldn't mind if she mostly lived in the house as long as there was no talk of marriage and engagement. No one would care."

"How could you suggest such a thing? I want to marry her. Properly. I want to spend the rest of my life with her."

"You are a lovesick boy, Raoul, and I almost lost you not six days ago!" he said, quite exasperated by his brother's obstinance and lack of care. "I won't lose you again. You have a life to live, don't throw it away for some chorus girl just because she has a pretty voice and is kind. There are so many kind women in this world who can sing, Raoul. And they would love you. She admitted that she does not love you."

"She loves me. She was being kind, as she always is, trying to make the pain of her leaving more bearable. She even lied to me that you had not said anything to her. Have you ever found a woman like that?"

"She deceived you, though. She thought she knew better than you about your life. You want to marry a woman like that?"

"She knows better about my life that you do."

Philippe's upper lip spasmed in anger, but he sighed again, then drew out his pipe and lit it. He drank it in thoughtfully.

"I love you, Raoul," he said, "and I know what's best for you, though you may not think so. I am practically your father and I expect to be treated as such. You cannot argue with me on matters so important to your life... Tomorrow, we will take a train to the coast, to our house on the Mediterranean, and when you have come to your senses, we shall return here. I tell you, though, I have arranged with mademoiselle Daaé to have her back onstage at the Opera. I will even allow you to support her there with small sums each month, if it will appease you until your love runs dry."

Raoul turned over in bed, his eyes clouded over and his features hard as stone. Philippe exhaled a puff of smoke, then left and shut the door behind himself.

...

In her room, Christine paced with even more intensity than Erik did at that same instant. She felt cornered, trapped. There was no choice she could make that suited her perfectly. The best choice was no doubt to return to the opera house, but she feared gossip. She had not known how much her tarnished reputation would affect her until she read it in the newspapers, heard it in whispers, little giggles from party-goers.

Philippe had held so many balls and visits from distant relatives in that one month, likely in the hope a young woman would catch his brother's eye. Raoul was as loyal as a dog, though, never leaving Christine's side. He had to protect her from their scorn, but he could not protect her from everything. She would be left alone at some point or another, left to conceal herself in a bathroom or hide away in some dark corner. There was no sense of belonging. She felt like a goose amongst swans whenever she was near the ladies, who all spoke in lofty tones and admired each other's jewels and dresses. Her slight accent always seemed to come out in conversation with them, and a handful of them could be overheard exaggerating and mocking it.

The childishness of those women frankly astounded her. Only the married ones were kind, but they secluded themselves and were quiet while with their husbands. Raoul's sisters were wonderful, but each had only attended once. They had both tried to help her, but the feat was impossible. She could only sit and hope no one noticed her most of the time. When Raoul linked his arm in hers, she often told him she needed to use the water closet. He was ignorant of this for a time, until he insisted that, if she despised the parties so much, she could feign illness instead. She did not tell him the truth. He seemed to think she simply disliked crowds, and she kept it that way rather than let him know how thoroughly mistreated she was. That was another reason she wanted to leave, and she knew she ought to tell him that before she went out to meet Erik that night. She needed to make amends. Even if she did not go with Erik, she would leave Raoul regardless, for her sake as much as his.

It was decided then. She smoothed down her jade-green skirts, bare of fanciful embroidery or the like, save the floral cuffs, and went out the hallway towards Raoul's bedroom. Philippe caught her before she reached the door.

"Are you leaving tonight, then, mademoiselle?" he asked.

"Yes, monsieur," she replied stiffly. "I don't want your money, though, but I may want to return to the opera house. Would you mind me asking later for you to help me be reinstalled there? I am not certain what I want to do yet."

"I have already explained to the managers. They will have you back as soon as you are ready. You needn't speak to me again... Raoul and I are going to the Mediterranean for his health."

"I hope he enjoys that... I need to tell him goodbye now."

"Do it calmly. He isn't himself."

"Of course I will be careful, monsieur," she said icily. "I love your brother."

He was silent, but permitted her into his brother's bedroom. He waited out of sight to hear what farewell she was to give.

"Raoul?" she said in a dulcet tone as she approached where he lay, swallowed up by the bed.

He sat up, his eyes lighting. His pallor had darkened considerably from earlier, and there were circles beneath his eyes.

"What do you need?" he asked.

"I am leaving. I think I might travel a bit before I return here, but trust that everything I do, I want to do. Don't go looking for me."

She glanced to his bedside table, and found the ring still resting there. Her eyes began to water, but she suppressed her tears.

"Forgive me for asking this," Raoul said, "but, well, would you be willing to be my... You see, when I am older, I will have more say in my life, and more command of my inheritance. If you could be my... mistress at the opera until then. Why, we could take excursions to the countryside and live just like husband and wife-"

"It's not right. You know I could never agree to that."

"But we could marry in secret," he insisted, his features becoming strained with desperation. "You would be my mistress to the world, but under God you would be my wife."

"I don't want that."

"You don't want that?"

"Oh, Raoul, I don't know what I want still," she pleaded. "I've been tossed around this past year so much that I need more time to decide what I want. But I cannot marry you."

"Then give me a good reason why that does not concern me. Would marriage to me make you unhappy?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "Yes."

"Why is that, besides the fact that my inheritance and title might be at stake?"

"Because everyone here hates me. You try to ignore it, but you know even the servants look down on me. No one will ever treat me well as your wife except you. I can't endure that like I did when I first came here. I won't be teased and ridiculed."

"You were teased and ridiculed?" he asked softly.

"I was a Swedish immigrant with no father, no protection, and no will of my own."

"You never said anything about that."

"Why would I trouble you with such knowledge?"

"Because I deserve to know!"

"You are not my husband," she retorted simply. "You do not deserve to know anything about me... Please don't let this melancholy consume you over me. Go sailing in the Mediterranean, find some lovely girls down there, forget me. Please. I love you too much to remain... Now you know why I cannot marry you, so I expect you will let me leave without any more argument."

He looked down at the quilted emerald sheets over his lap, then he folded his hands.

"You have had too little to do with your life," he said, his voice nearly breaking, "that I will respect any choice you make regarding it, especially as you think our marriage would not be a happy one for you... I want you to be happy, a-and if not with me, then someone else... I hope to hear you sing, though, when I return. They will be calling you the Songbird of Paris again."

"They never called me that," she replied, smiling weakly as she squeezed his hand.

"I'll have a word with the newspapers, then. They shall."

She leaned down and brushed her lips against his, running her hand through his blonde curls. Knowing this was likely to be their last, Raoul wrapped his arms about her in a desperate attempt to keep her longer. She lingered, too, trying to renew that same feeling she had first experienced on the rooftop, when her cheeks burned and her body ached. There was nothing of that, now. It felt cold, like pressing her lips against stone.

When they parted, his chest was heaving, but hers remained still.

"I'll write to you," she promised. "I need the address of your house by the sea, though."

He grabbed a piece of paper from beside his bed and wrote it out for her. It trembled in his hand as he extended it to her. She folded it neatly between her hands.

"Goodbye, Raoul," she whispered, reaching out to stroke his face with her fingertips.

"Goodbye."

She glanced back at the ring once more, then turned and went back to her room. Her chest felt hollow, but she could not tell if that was from a sense of freedom, or the fact she was leaving her dearest friend. They would write, though, and be in acquaintance. Everything would be fine. He would find someone else eventually and be happy.

Now to pace until midnight, when her decision needed to be made.


	4. Chapter 4: The Train

Erik sat down in the heart of the maze and began to pick at the grass. The blades broke and scattered in the wind. It was particularly brisk that night. The sky was clear, though, with a bright half-moon and a multitude of stars. He amused himself with pointing out constellations, if only to distract himself from the disappointment he awaited.

A child. That was what he felt like, a child. Children were born with hope in their hearts that dissipated over time. He had once hoped his mother might praise him if he tried hard enough in his studies, if he played the violin until his fingers calloused and bled, but nothing ever came but a pursed lip. He ached for less than a touch of affection, however, only to know that, for once, he was wanted. He had never been wanted before save as a pawn, or as a lie.

Lilies wrapped in paper rested beside him on the broken blades of grass. They had pink at their center, bleeding out like stars. He had brought them for her. Perhaps that was inappropriate, but he needed to give her something. Flowers were also easier to explain than jewels or trinkets, as she could have bought them for herself. He knew she often left the house to meander about the city for a time, alone and free, a strange thing indeed for a young woman. It was not so unusual for her to have purchased flowers on one of these excursions.

He had a sudden vision of her breaking one lily's stem and bringing it up to tuck behind her ear. The mere idea of such a thing sent him into a state of rapture.

She came out of the house at a minute to midnight, through the backdoor the servants frequented. There was a pump there and a little garden patch overgrown with yellow weeds. She turned back to the house before hurrying into the maze, finding her way to the heart of it. He stood and brushed the grass from his pants, then grabbed the flowers, but he had a sudden desire to throw them rather than risk upsetting her. Flowers were a sign of love, after all, a love that was not returned. His nervousness rooted him to the ground, however, and soon there she was, standing in front of him. She wore a pearl-gray dress with buttons down the front and pleated ruffles around the bustle, but no other decoration save a pin in the shape of a sparrow on her breast. His heart leapt.

"Good evening, Erik," she said quietly, folding her hands in front of her dress.

"Good evening," he replied. He feared she could hear his thundering pulse.

She tilted her head and gestured towards the lilies. "Are those for me?"

"Yes, of course."

"They're lovely."

Her focus drifted. She did not reach for the flowers.

"What is your decision?" he asked, desperate to find out if she was only twisting the knife deeper into his heart or if she truly meant to leave with him.

She looked down at her skirts, then her gaze trailed off yet again rather than meet his. His heart fluttered as it had before, but this time with fear rather than hope. Her lack of confidence was a sign that she was considering how best to disappoint him. He prepared his mind, but his _heart..._ that feat was impossible.

"We will be separate at all times if not in public view," she stated suddenly, "and if at any time I want to return here, I expect to be permitted it without question or argument."

"Then you are coming with me?" he asked, needing to hear her absolute agreement.

"I am... but where shall we go?"

He stared at her, his expression blank behind his mask as he failed to comprehend. "You're coming with me?"

"Yes. I am." She held her hands at her sides and pushed out her chest a bit with the weight of her decision. "I am coming with you to find out where I ought to go, what I ought to do... But where shall we go first?"

"Just outside of Brussels," he said, as if reciting a line. "I have a dependent there."

"Dependent?"

"A leech, more like," he admitted uneasily, "but I am indebted to him. I try never to visit him, but the house is mine and rests on an acre of land. It has four bedrooms, so you will be quite comfortable there for a time until we move on, as you still seem quite undecided."

"Well, it's hard decision, what to do with one's life," she replied simply, "and few have the opportunity to make such a choice regarding it. I don't want to rush into it without thinking."

"Very wise."

She folded her hands, her arms loose in front of her, appearing at once prim and proper while also asserting her control over the situation. It gave her comfort to know how much control she had then, and she had no intention of relenting it.

"How do you intend to get us to Brussels?" she inquired.

"By train and false papers. It would be too obvious if you came with me under your own name, so you will have to adopt an alias."

"May I choose my own?"

He blinked, quite confused by such a notion, but he had no intention of denying her. "Certainly."

"Catherine du Pont, then. I've always liked the French name Catherine, and du Pont is common enough. I need something I can remember when flustered, too."

"Then it is settled."

"Where are we going now, though?"

"A hotel for you to stay in for the night."

"That sounds best..." She glanced back at the château. "I need to get my things from my room still. A servant can bring my trunk to the hotel for me- let me go request it. But I need the address-"

"Here," he told her, removing a folded slip of paper from his pocket. She took it, taking care not to touch his gloved hand at the transaction.

"I'll go see to that, then," she said, then she craned her neck to look around him. "Is there a brougham waiting for you?"

"Yes, a little ways off. I assumed we would take the same... unless-?"

"No, no, that's fine. No need to spend twice as much, either... Let me go inform someone to bring me my things in the morning. I'll only be a moment."

She disappeared into the house. He hardly knew what to do with himself as he beamed behind his mask. How foolish he looked! Ah, but darkness concealed whatever the mask could not. He nearly leapt and clapped his hands in euphoria. His eyes were stinging with tears of joy- the first in his memory. Was it typical to cry from happiness? He knew too little of happiness to know.

Christine drifted towards the foyer in a rather dreamlike state, so much so that she pinched her forearm twice to be certain this was reality. It seemed to be, and it seemed to be correct, considering everything. He had shown he could be trusted, too, by confiding in her his name, and answering all her questions promptly, so yes, this was correct.

Footsteps issued from upstairs towards the railing overlooking the foyer. Her breath caught, and she pushed herself up against a wall, hardly daring to fill her lungs. The fact that she was leaving so late was enough to arouse suspicion, but she also had not yet retrieved her things. At least she had not taken those lilies from Erik, or else she would be very caught indeed.

The person came down the marble staircase with care. She shifted around the corner, backing herself up against a wall. Who was coming downstairs at this hour? Perhaps a servant?

A shadow grew upon the floorboards, illuminated by a flickering candle.

"Who's there?" Raoul called.

She swallowed. If she spoke, he would know where she was, and his suspicions would be aroused. If she stayed silent, however, and was discovered, he would know she was hiding something.

She came out from behind the wall, smiling weakly. "Hello. Why are you up and about at this hour?"

"I couldn't sleep. I thought I heard noises downstairs."

He was in a white nightshirt that had been sloppily tucked into black pants. His hand was held behind his back. There was a wild look about him, as his hair was tousled from sleep and his pallor deathly pale.

"Why are _you_ up at this hour?" he inquired, tilting his head.

"I..." She clasped her hands in front of herself, her eyes lingering on her feet. "I'm leaving."

"Oh... Where are your things?"

"I wanted to be certain the brougham was here before I retrieved them."

He glanced behind her. "And you are leaving out the back door? At midnight?"

"I wanted to leave while you were asleep, so the pain would not be so terrible. I didn't want to say goodbye like this, though-"

"But midnight? Out the back door at _midnight_ , Christine?"

She crossed her arms. "Why are you interrogating me while I'm trying to keep myself from crying?"

"Because you are lying to me."

Her mouth softened. "Let me explain myself-"

"Why don't you have a candle, too? You're wandering about in the dark, and I thought you were afraid of the dark."

"I'm not afraid of the dark. I'm afraid of what it may hide."

"Those are one and the same."

"Why are you asking me so many questions instead of kissing me goodbye?"

He stared at her, his features tensing almost as if disgusted. He shook his head in dismay.

"I don't understand you," he said. He tightened the hand behind his back. "I don't understand why you would lie to me like this. Do you not love me?"

"If I lie it is because I love you!" she cried as tears stung her eyes.

His upper lip twitched with rage, and in one swift motion, he withdrew a pistol from behind himself. His eyes flashed dangerously.

"Where is he?"

Her heart leapt into her throat, and her voice quavered as she replied hastily, "Nowhere, he's nowhere, I swear, listen- Raoul!"

He ran out the back door, and she pursued, holding her skirts aloft as she kept his pace. Her heart was pounding. Their steps quickened as he tore across the grounds, the pistol extended out in front of him. She could barely breathe from exertion and fright.

"Raoul!" she cried. "Stop! Stop it now!"

He fired two shots into the night air. "Come out! Come out, you devil!"

"You're going to wake the whole house!" she insisted with desperation, terrified by his lack of restraint. "You've gone mad, Raoul, come back inside before you hurt someone!"

She grabbed his arm and he shoved her away.

"I have had enough of your torments, Erik!" he cried out into the darkness. "That is your name, isn't it? Come out where I can see you!"

"Raoul, please! You've gone mad! Why won't you listen to me? You're the only one who's ever listened to me! Listen now!"

The house was suddenly alight, and footsteps were echoing through the halls, along with muffled cries for Raoul. The windows danced with candles. He stormed into the maze as Christine clung to his arm in desperation, her frail weight hindering him as well as a leaf.

"Put that thing down," she cried, "before you hurt someone! You're not well! You've gone mad, come back inside with me-"

"Where is he? I'm going to kill him! Where is he?"

"He's nowhere! I don't know where he is!"

"You made a deal with him for my life, now where is he? Stop trying to protect me!"

"Oh, you never believe a word I say! Yes, I lied to you earlier, but only because you would swallow it sooner than the truth! You know I wouldn't lie to someone I love, not unless I had to!"

"What has he forced you to do?"

" _Nothing."_

"Tell me! If you love me, tell me!"

She glanced out towards the hedge maze where Erik lay hidden, then she turned back to meet Raoul's blue eyes. They pierced her soul, and she swallowed.

"I'm leaving with him of my own volition," she said faintly. "I decided it three days ago, without any coaxing. We met together after he returned you to me, and... and it was decided."

He stared through her, his mouth falling open. "You decided...? You're leaving with him? I don't understand, how could you?"

"I'm a free being. I can do as I please, and I thought it over for days, I promise you-"

"He'll shut you away somewhere!"

"He won't. He gave you back to me-"

"How do you know he didn't pay the men to kidnap me in order to steal your trust?" he accused wildly. "How do you know he isn't abusing your trust again?"

"I don't know!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up into the air. "But I'm going with him, and you shall permit it, if you truly love me. I have the right to make decisions about my life."

"No. No." He shook his head with disgust. "A murderer, Christine, you would place yourself in the hands of a murderer? What deal has he struck with you?"

"Oh, believe me for once! There is no deal! I am free to do as I please! And what I please is to leave this place, where everyone hates me save you, and my mere presence tarnishes your reputation! There is nothing for me here save you, and I refuse to have you. I refuse to take anything away from you. And without you, all I have left is music, and only he can give me that!"

The back door swung open, revealing a disheveled Philippe still tying the sash of his crimson robe. A handful of equally flustered servants hurried out behind him.

"Raoul!" he cried. "Raoul, put the gun down! Put it down! Have you lost your mind?"

Raoul's eyes burned with sudden fury, and he fired into the hedge maze. Christine shrieked with fright as it went off.

 _Bang!_

 _Bang!_

Without hesitation, Philippe leapt on top of him and shoved him to the ground. They rolled in the grass for a moment before the servants, confused by their masters' behaviors, also assisted in restraining the vicomte. Three of them pulled away the pistol as Christine looked out upon the maze in horror. There had been no cry of pain, no sign of him, none. He must have been fine, certainly, absolutely fine.

Raoul was taken back inside with much ado. Once everyone had turned their attention to him and were out of sight, she darted into the hedge maze. Two holes had been cut through the leaves, dispersing the moonlight.

"Erik?" she whispered, wandering amidst the green walls. "Erik, are you hurt?"

Silence. Her heart stumbled in her chest.

"Erik? Erik, where are you?"

A hand emerged from behind a hedge, causing her to step back in fright. She crept into his hiding place on her knees. His leather mask shone beneath the night sky, and his eyes softened upon meeting hers.

"I'm fine," he told her where he crouched in the dirt, stunned to find her so concerned about him. "He didn't know where to aim."

"Oh, thank God!" she said. "Thank God, thank God- oh, he went mad! I can't possibly leave now, not now, not with him thinking _I'm_ the one who's mad... I have to explain it all to him."

"But later?" he asked, barely restraining his desperation. "Will you come with me still?"

"Yes. Yes, I promise this time. Give me..." She thought for a moment, the space between her eyes puckering with the intensity of it. "Give me another day to settle all this. But we can't meet here, not with Raoul in this state... We must meet in the alleyway beside Madame Giry's apartment."

"Midnight?"

"Yes, midnight. They should be asleep by then..." She glanced back towards the house, biting her lip. "I ought to go see to him... Goodnight, then. I'll meet you again tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night," he agreed.

She went into the house and shut the door behind herself as gently as a breeze. He waited until she appeared in her room, illuminated by a candle, before he slipped into the night, the lilies still clasped in his hand.

...

Philippe had made up his mind that he and Raoul were traveling to the coast of Italy the following day, along with a doctor. Christine told them she would be staying with the Girys, then go across Europe, like her father had done in Scandinavia. Raoul insisted she was accompanied by someone, and that she would write to him once a week. She agreed, and it was settled. They took a train at four o'clock that afternoon.

Her effects were brought to Madame Giry's apartment, where she explained that she would be leaving that night, very late. They saw nothing at fault with this, though they were a bit confused by her affectionate manner towards them, as if she were bidding them farewell rather than goodbye.

Erik was waiting for her at midnight in the alleyway. A brown suitcase was clasped in her hands as she approached him, and under her arm was a cream-colored hat box.

"Could you help me with my trunk?" she asked. "I can drag it down the steps, but I doubt I can place it in the brougham."

"Certainly."

He went and retrieved it from the doorstep. She admired his black outline in the dark. He was moving elegantly again, if that could be considered a proper description. She preferred it when he did not perform for her, with graceful motions of his arms and carefully constructed sentences. She wanted to see the Erik she had just grown to know. The other demeanor, though, of course, was strangely welcome and made her heart rush in excitement, even if she did not quite understand why. There was simply something so appealing about the darkness.

He placed her trunk in the back of the waiting brougham. The horses stamped in impatience.

"Come," he told her, opening the door of the brougham and gesturing to the velvet interior.

She turned her head, as if to glance back, but continued forward with her eyes ahead. Her stomach twisted as she sat down upon the bench. Erik joined her and shut the door, keeping himself staring forward so as not to betray his overwhelming emotion at having her so near.

"We are going to the hotel, yes?" she asked.

"Yes. It's near my hiding place."

"How far?"

"Half an hour."

She nodded as the space between her eyes knitted. "How strange that you can conceal yourself in the city, what with all the police around."

"There are ways to hide in plain sight. My description was also too dramatic in the papers, quite inflated, and I doubt even a policeman would recognize me from it."

"That's good..."

They arrived at the hotel within twenty minutes, due to how late it was. The building was of pale-yellow Paris brick with long windows. Erik assisted Christine out of the brougham, then went to retrieve her things from behind. He would be keeping her trunk with him that night.

"When should I be ready in the morning?" she asked him as he handed her the suitcase and hatbox.

"Nine o'clock," he replied.

"Will you come fetch me then?"

"Yes. I'll be waiting outside."

"Good, thank you."

They stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment. She adjusted the hatbox under her arm and smiled weakly.

"Well," she said, "goodnight then, Erik."

"Goodnight."

He hesitated a moment, but went back into the brougham and shut the door. She watched him disappear down the road before going inside to find a room. The man behind the desk was asleep on his hand, a check-in book to his right. She rapped her knuckles on the desk rather than startle him with the dull bell.

"Excuse me, monsieur," she said politely. "I'm sorry to wake you, but I'm in need of a room."

He stirred lazily. His eyes drooped like a basset hound's and his brown hair was balding.

"Room 12," he told her, his eyes still drifting as if in sleep. He reached back to grab a key and placed it in her hand. "Write your name in here. You pay tomorrow. Fifteen francs per night."

"Thank you, monsieur."

She opened the book and found an empty line. This she wrote her alias on: _Katherine du Pont, March 8th, 1882_. Her stomach churned from lying, but it was to protect Erik, so was it so terrible?

"Do you need help with those?" he inquired as he scratched at his remaining hair.

She set aside the pen, then glanced down at her things. "No, thank you. I can take them up on my own."

He nodded, then rested his head on his folded hands again and drifted off. He must have been quite tired not to help a young lady with her effects, but she preferred bringing them up herself anyway.

She went up the spiral staircase to the fourth room on the second floor. Each hall was lined with white doors with a plaque for a number. Upon entering hers, she found it to be quite small, with a cream-colored bed in the corner across from a single long window. There was a white dressing table and a washbasin in the other corner. The walls were a faded green.

A lump formed in her throat. The excitement of it all had run dry, and the realization set in that she might never see Raoul again, or Madame Giry, or Meg. Tears stung her eyes as she set her suitcase and hatbox down beside the door.

She had left everything behind once before, but not like this. Sweden had held no dear friends, only acquaintances. Her Papa had come with her, too. At least they would still be in Paris, should she ever return. Her Papa was somewhere high above her, invisible to her mortal eye.

Though she cried for some time over the state of things, she slept peacefully once her tears had run out. Part of her wanted to run back to Raoul, back to a state of surety, rather than away with a man she hardly knew. It was stupid that she cried over her own decision, but the stress of Raoul's family and parties, then his abduction, and Philippe's sharp words, had broken her without her knowing. A few shed tears, though, and she regained her strength in that curious way of them.

The next morning, after a breakfast of tea and a buttered croissant, Erik brought her to the train station. It was frantic and loud, and all the commotion had terrified her as a girl, the infinite number of people coming and going. Though she still despised crowds, the opera house had helped her grow accustomed to such masses, so she remained calm and collected as Erik guided her to their train. The engine was black and freshly painted, with a red streak running across it. The cars were more worn on the outside, but the engine was all anyone truly cared about, and it was glossy and gleaming.

Boarding went smoothly enough. They placed themselves in a separate room with their luggage, near the back of the train, where they hoped to be undisturbed.

They had little conversation during the four-hour ride, as both were quite nervous in each other's company. Erik did tell her about the house they were going to, and the various opera houses they could visit around Europe. She had to force herself not to fully rely on his promises or anything he said, though, but he spoke in such earnest! And his voice was so wonderfully soft, and sweet as honey. Each word demanded her attention and trust as her guard fell bit by bit. He was often nervous, though, and had brief lapses in his calm, collected manner which made her want to trust him even more desperately. She had to catch herself each time before she ruined her situation again. Being trusting was not a bad trait, but it made one easy prey. She would not be that again for anyone.

"I absolutely adore trains," she said as Erik examined their tickets. "I don't enjoy waiting for them or boarding them, but once I'm on, I'm quite content... Do you like them?"

He glanced over at her, his malformed lips parting beneath his leather mask. "Trains?"

She nodded, folding her lips as she did so. He considered the question for a moment, then replied, "I don't like or dislike them. They are a means of transportation is all."

"But being able to watch the city disappear out the window, and all the rolling hills and farms in the distance, isn't that at least a bit enjoyable to you?"

"I don't quite understand you. I hardly ever ride trains, and if I do, I find a secluded part away from other travelers, so no, I find no part in any form of travel enjoyable."

"With me, though, perhaps?" she offered.

His eyes widened behind his mask in surprise, and he admitted quietly, "With you, perhaps."

"Look out the window with me. I haven't been bored a moment while doing so."

He turned his head to oblige her. His gaze, however, drifted from the rolling countryside to Christine, who rested her head on her hand as she stared out the window. The sunlight danced on her lips, and he remembered how they had felt against his, for the first time and the last. He had not known a thing could be so soft and warm- a bit wet, too, though she had let a few tears fall during the kiss. Only her lips had met his, though, nothing more. He had been too afraid to hold her, and too ashamed of himself. What he would not give to relive that kiss again, though, shame and all.

She was oblivious to the thoughts in his head. Her hand pointed to something or other out the window for him to see, but he simply nodded, keeping his gaze fixated on her. She was far more interesting than anything outside. He wanted to be next to her, admiring the scene as she was, but he remained opposite, fearful, though he did not quite understand why.

When they arrived in Brussels, she mentioned that they ought to have lunch. Erik had forgotten in the excitement of the day. He had a brougham wait with their luggage while they ate at a little restaurant with white tables outside, where everyone sitting had a mound of black mussels in front of them.

After eating, Christine asked to explore the city a bit, if they had time. He was only too happy to accompany her. They went to the Grand-Place first, where they spent the good portion of an hour, as Christine was curious about every single white tower surrounding them, every ledge coated in gold. They were standing in an immense square surrounded by four walls of white buildings.

"Architecture is such an astounding thing," she said simply as she marveled at it.

"That is why I pursued it with such diligence," he replied, staring up at the ornamented spires.

She turned to him in surprise. "You're an architect?"

"Yes, but I never designed anything of value."

"I'm certain that's not true... Is that why you decided to live in the opera house?"

"Of course."

"Do you design things, then, in your spare time? Blueprints and the like? Models?"

"A few," he admitted, his gaze still upon the structures surrounding them, "but they will never be realized."

"Could I see them? Unless they are private-"

"No, no, certainly you may. I brought one with me."

"What is it of?"

"An opera house."

She smiled. "Of course..." She glanced at the watch on her wrist and frowned. "We ought to leave, don't you think?

"Yes, but we can come back tomorrow and stay the whole day in the city, if you want."

"If I feel well enough, that sounds lovely."

He wondered what she meant by that as they went back to the brougham, past gleaming shop windows and insistent vendors selling everything from waffles to hair solutions.

They stepped inside the brougham and were soon off towards the house. Christine's mind wandered to melancholy thoughts, which had her quite preoccupied with the view outside the window. Erik thought she must have exhausted herself with the excitement of traveling to a new city, and he assumed that, with a bit of rest, she would return to herself in the morning. For that time, he watched her at the window as he had on the train. She rested her head on her hand, and the sunlight brushed tenderly against her cheek. He could make out her freckles in the light, the ones that would fully blossom in the summer, however tightly she clasped her parasol.

After an hour, her melancholy state began to lift, and she prodded him with questions about his "leech" that he refused to answer. The man, whoever he was, had irritated Erik in some fashion, though once he slipped in speech and referred to the same man as his friend.

"You have a friend?" she asked in surprise.

His eyes darkened behind his mask. "He was a friend, I suppose, once..." He hastily changed the subject. "Have you thought of where you want to go yet, after Brussels?"

"I haven't the faintest. Let me get settled in the house first. I would rather rest for a week or two before choosing opera houses to visit or considering what I might want to do instead... If that is all right?"

"Whatever you want to do is all right, and it is at your leisure... The man has a cat, do you mind cats?"

"Not at all. What type?"

"Siamese."

She brightened at hearing the breed. "Is he nice?"

"She. And no, she is not. She is a tyrant, demanding and irrational. She only permits him or me to stroke her, and even then she often hisses at us or bats us with her claws."

"She sounds absolutely _lovely_."

The corners of his lips rose at her rare sarcasm. "I stole her, you know."

"Stole her?" she asked, her eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"When the man was my friend, he remarked how much he admired the Shah's Siamese, so I took one for him."

"The Shah? What Shah?"

"Of Persia..." He caved to the questions in her bright eyes. "I lived there for a time."

"That must have been exciting."

He laughed aloud. "Oh, my dear, no. No, no, no, no."

Her face fell. "What happened there to make you think that?"

"We are almost at the house," he said, directing her attention elsewhere. "Don't touch the cat if she presents herself."

"I won't."

"Even if she rubs up against you as if she wants more than anything in the world to be petted and stroked, don't let her fool you."

"I won't... Why not get rid of her, though, if she is so horrible?"

"She comforts him. He is blind, so the sensation of her fur is soothing."

"I thought you didn't care about this man," she remarked as she adjusted her skirts better over her knees. "What is his name?"

"You may call him Monsieur Khan... I suppose."

"So is he... Persian, then?"

"Yes. He was the chief of police when I was there."

"How on earth did you two ever get along, then?" she teased. "A chief of police and a... well, a man like you?"

"We never got along, my dear, that is what makes this whole arrangement so immensely irritating... And here we are to meet monsieur Khan."

He helped her out in the exact manner he had seen gentlemen do with their ladies, holding her hand aloft as she exited. It was the most wonderful part of their arrangement, that he could play, in his head, the part of her husband or lover. He was carrying her luggage, offering his arm, taking care she had all her needs provided for, little things that he had always wanted to do for her, for anyone. The fact that he could provide for her and do a fine job of it delighted him to no end.

The sun had sunk to the horizon by then, illuminating Christine's features in a burnt glow. He often watched her for a moment while she had turned her head away, just to observe her beauty. Perhaps, indeed, she was not the most beautiful of women, not in the usual sense. Her Swedish nose was large and round, her blue eyes like teardrops, and her lips were thin, as is common in northern regions, but quite pink against her pale complexion. Regardless of what Paris idealized in a woman, she was exquisite to him. There was no comparison to her. Someone ought to sculpt her in fine marble, or perhaps her portrait ought to be painted. A photograph could never do her justice. There had to be roses in her cheeks, and blue in her eyes.

"It's beautiful out here," she sighed as she gulped down the fresh air. "I forget how awful Paris is for my lungs... Are we going inside?"

"Yes, knock on the door. His servant should answer."

He was carrying all of their bags. She walked up the front steps to the oak doors. On them were two brass door knockers with metal vines entwined about them. The house itself was white and plain, with neat rows of windows and a dark wood roof. A barren garden was woven around it and needed tending to. It had not yet overcome the chill of winter and started to bloom.

"No one is answering," Christine said, trying again.

Erik set down the suitcases and placed the hatbox atop them. "Perhaps he is out. He enjoys the symphonies."

The door opened when he tried the handle. That was the first sign something was amiss.

"Do you have your knife?" he whispered.

Her heart shuddered. "What?"

"Take it out. Now."

She pulled up her skirts and unsheathed it. He held up her arms before herself, pointing the sharp weapon ahead.

"Stay here," he insisted. "Run if you hear anyone inside."

"What's wrong?" she pleaded, her stomach writhing as her skin turned to ice. "Oh, what's wrong?"

He placed his forefinger to his lips, and she shut her mouth tight. Her lips drained of color as she watched him step inside the dark house. The knife grew leaden in her hands. She whispered a prayer.

Then her ears rang with the tinkling of a bell, followed by the shattering of porcelain.


	5. Chapter 5: The Bird

"Ayesha, damn you!" he cried in a hoarse whisper as she tumbled off a mahogany endtable. She bolted out the door, leaving behind a mess of dead flowers and shattered porcelain.

 _Dead flowers..._

"Is everything all right?" Christine called from outside, her voice frail.

He went to the doorway and extended his hand out to her. She would only safe at his side, though he had wished not to subject her to the horrors this house likely held.

"Stay beside me," he told her.

She did so with surprising readiness. Her knife was held limply in her skirts and the reflection of light in her eyes trembled.

"Keep your knife out," he advised in a low voice. "We need to check every corner. Tell me if you see anything odd or out of place, anything that doesn't seem right."

She nodded, glancing down at the knife in her hands. Then her eyes fastened upon the tile floor. There was a trail of something dark upon it, something smeared across the surface. She stared at it more closely, squinting, then gasped.

"Blood! Oh, Erik, there's blood!"

"I know, I know." He gritted his teeth. "You're safe with me. Stay at my side."

He kneeled down to examine the dried blood. It had been firmly smeared across the floor. Someone had been dragged, bleeding a fair amount, though perhaps enough to recover from. The stains were a week old at least by their hue, perhaps more. It was difficult to tell.

Christine swayed where she stood. Black spots blurred her vision like ink. Did death follow Erik wherever he went? She should have remained at the opera instead of dying here!

He rose and placed his hand on her shoulder. She found that his touch comforted her greatly and dissipated a bit of her tightly-wound fear, though she would not have permitted it in any other situation.

They went into the drawing room, alert for signs of an intruder, though it was becoming evident that whoever it was had long since gone. The room was empty and appeared to be untouched, to Erik's knowledge. The painted vases were on the end tables as they ought to be, the paintings of flowers on the walls, portraits and trinkets on the mantelpiece, including the ones of the daroga's wife and son, the ones made my his own hand.

"Sit down for a moment," he told her gently, easing her onto an evergreen sofa with floral print. "I need to check the bedroom."

"But what if someone is here?" she managed out.

"They have left. I am certain of it."

He slipped into the daroga's bedroom. The sight of it made him hiss air through his teeth.

It had been properly ransacked. The bedsheets had been torn off and cast back upon the bed. The drawers of the dresser were open, some clothes strewn about or hanging down. Anything of value had been taken.

It was almost as if the scene were planned, that or someone had searched the house. But what would they be searching for? There was nothing of any real value here, not that would be worth the murder of two men.

He pulled back the quilted sheets of the bed and reeled. There was a dried pool of brown- almost black- liquid. His hands clenched into fists as his gaze blurred with tears.

"No!" he cried, forgetting for a moment that Christine was in the next room.

He gasped for breath, sobbing as he clung to the soiled bedsheets. His tears were suddenly choking him, burning and stinging, and he fought them back, but they came forth violently and without remorse.

"Erik, what is it?" came a soft voice from the doorway. "A-are they...?"

He pushed the bedsheets over the stain, then straightened his waistcoat, keeping his face turned away from her, even if it was masked. She could not see the tears in his eyes. He would not allow it.

"They are dead," he said simply, swallowing painfully. "We must go elsewhere."

"Dead?" she trembled out. "How? Who was after them? Are they after you, too?"

"Yes... Forgive me, but I believe our next stop is London. They can't find us there."

He turned back to her and found she was leaning against the wall, her legs rubber from shock. She needed a drink. A bit of brandy would do best, but he feared she might not permit such a thing to touch her lips.

"I'll make you some tea," he told her.

"Do I need to keep my knife out still?"

"One can never take too many precautions when dealing with these sorts of people."

"But you said-?"

"I know what I said."

He guided her back into the drawing room with his hand at the small of her back. She sat down upon the sofa again, twisting her hands nervously. He went to make her tea.

It was impossible to keep her eyes from drifting down the trail of dried blood, but she tried to keep them upon the landscape paintings instead. She had already seen too much of death. Most people had, after all, especially in the city, where it traveled like a forest fire. Children died of swift diseases, parents of tragic accidents, and those who lived to a ripe old age had likely outlived all those they loved. It was miserable. That was why Erik's actions had disgusted her so. He had not only robbed two people of their lives, but also their family members of a son or brother, and their lovers of their hearts.

What had driven him to such acts? And did he revel in them, or scorn them as a vile necessity? If it was the latter, then... then she did not know what. Right and wrong were impossible to differentiate now.

He returned rather quickly with a steaming cup of tea and wrapped her hands about it. She thanked him as she inhaled the warm scent.

"Camomile?" she asked in an attempt at normalcy.

He nodded slightly. "Yes... and a little something for your nerves."

"Thank you."

She watched the leaves drift in the amber liquid as she blew into the cup. Erik sat down in an armchair near the fireplace, resting his head on folded hands as he looked out the window. His gaze was distant. She knew that look.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He turned to her, his mask concealing all emotion. His tone was almost that of amusement as he replied, "What have you to be sorry for?"

"That you've... lost them."

His eyes relaxed behind his full mask. She wished desperately to see what lay beneath, to know he was truly human and capable of sorrow and happiness.

"People die," he told her simply. "That is why we live."

"Please do not act as if this doesn't affect you. You are as human as I."

"Only since I met you." He glanced upstairs, tilting his head in curiosity as he rose. "Stay here. I'm going to look around a bit more."

She grabbed his arm, and he jolted as if electrocuted.

"Please don't leave me," she told him. "I-I'll come with you."

His lips parted. _Don't leave me._ Those words had come from her own mouth. How he had longed to hear that exact plea, but not like this, never like this, with her eyes filled to the brim with fear.

"If that is what you wish," was his breathless reply.

She followed him upstairs, the tea still in her hands. Her knife she had stowed. He went into the guest bedroom, which was untouched, then down the hall to Darius's. There was a bloody handprint on the door, and Christine shut her eyes in pain.

"Why is there so much death in this world?" she managed out.

"The world is death," he replied solemnly.

They continued down the hall to his bedroom. The door creaked open to his touch, and inside he found the room had been ransacked like the Persian's.

"What were they searching for?" Christine asked.

"I don't know," he replied earnestly, reaching for the white mask that had been left atop his dresser. He gazed into its empty eye socket.

Christine went over to the bed. It had been thrown across the mattress like in Monsieur Khan's bedroom. The lack of order upset her, so she began to smooth out the sheets. Why, Erik had no idea. He was quite preoccupied with his own dark thoughts.

"It's almost like..." he said, squinting in confusion. "Almost... but it can't be-"

"Oh!" Christine cried.

He went to her side, blood pounding in his ears. "What? What?"

She pulled back the bedsheets with trembling hands to reveal a dark stain identical to the daroga's. He stared at it for a moment, blinking once, twice, before his lopsided lips turned up in a wry smile.

"They're not dead," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"They're not dead. Not even harmed, I should think. This is all an elaborate scene, planned out for some violent audience."

She clapped her hands. "Thank God! But how do you know?"

"They must have been threatened and decided to pretend they were already dead before they could be murdered. A simple trick, but effective when performed as well as this. See?" He gestured to the bedsheets. "That is why there is blood in my bed, and why nothing has been cleaned up, and only the valuables taken. Not even Khan's portraits of his late wife and child are gone. It's a scene. Just a scene. I knew there was something strange about all this. What good assassin would leave such a mess?"

"So where are they?"

He tapped the white mask against the back of his hand, then shook his head gently. "I have no idea."

"Should we look for clues?"

"I doubt they left any. It would be too much of a risk."

"Perhaps they're staying in the city," she offered brightly. "I'm sure it's not too difficult to find two Persian men amidst all the Belgians."

"I have no need to see them. They will continue to receive their monthly checks, and that is all they care about."

Her smile of relief faded. "What do you mean?"

"I give them a good sum of francs each month, and they live off that as payment."

"Payment? What for?"

"That is not yours to know."

"Yes, of course, I... I didn't mean to intrude." She stood in awkward silence a moment, her cheeks coloring a bit in embarrassment. "But must we go to London now? Can't we rent a place in the city?"

"It's not safe for us."

"They think you're dead," she argued, gesturing to the stained sheets.

"Perhaps... and perhaps not. They don't care about the daroga and his servant, only me."

"Why is that?"

"I may have... taken a few valuable items."

"Why would you do that, if you knew they would come after you?"

He shrugged with another wry smile. "I already knew they would kill me soon."

"How?"

"You ask a good deal of questions," he said with mild amusement. "Even when you were my student, so many questions."

"I like to know. Is that wrong?"

"No... no, not at all."

She fell silent rather than pry further, then she glanced out the window. Her eyes brightened.

"Could we look at their mail?" she offered. "Might that have something in it?"

"Isn't that illegal?" he said.

Her eyes widened. He chuckled.

"Did you think I was in earnest?" he asked her. "Why would I abide by the law? I think that's a fine idea, the mail, but I doubt it will help, as they receive none, save from me. But perhaps..."

They went back downstairs. Christine glanced down at the blood in the foyer again, perplexed. Erik caught her gaze.

"You are wondering whose blood that is?" he asked her.

"I assumed an animal."

"Yes, well... they used to have quite a few chickens. I have no doubt they played their part in this charade."

She nodded, then bit her lip as her eyes roamed over the paintings on the walls. "How terrible that they must leave this place. It looks like they used to have a garden, too."

"Flowers can be planted elsewhere, new chickens can be purchased, new houses. Better to lose all that than their lives."

"Yes, but it still must have been difficult for them."

He did not reply.

They went out to where the mailbox stood beside the front gate. Erik went to draw it open. The hinges squeaked from lack of use.

He stared at the contents for a long moment, his lips pressed together beneath his mask.

"Anything?" Christine asked.

He was silent as he withdrew a bright blue stone, curiously carved into the image of a bird with long tail feathers and decorous plumage. His lips had drained to a sickly white.

"What does this mean?" she asked.

"Death," he replied in a low voice. "Death in forty days."

"Why forty days?"

"It's a legend. Kill or capture the bird, and one dies in forty days... But it torments the victim, of course, knowing that his life has an end date. That is why they fled, to avoid that end."

"But who is after them?"

"I'm certain it's not them she's after. She never cared about them."

"She?"

"I'll explain later."

"You will explain _now_ ," she insisted hotly. "Who is after you besides the police? Why did I not know about any of this? Not one bit? I demand to know what I've stepped foot in here! Fake deaths and... and assassins! Erik, what is happening here?"

He dropped the figurine onto the grass and sighed, "You should never have needed to know... but I suppose you must now. I am a fugitive from Persia as well as France... and India and Russia. More than I can think of..." His pupils drifted up in thought. "Perhaps China, too, they were not so fond of me when I set fire to my own architecture. But then, it was a piece of sh-"

"So people are after you?" she interrupted, ignoring his wandering thoughts. "Why didn't you tell me? I have to go back-"

"No!" he said with such force she stumbled back. Then he shook his head to calm himself. "No. You're safe with me. I can protect you better than anyone."

"Then why did you ask me to withdraw my knife?"

"To be sure you could protect yourself as well as I. A simple precaution... You must trust me."

"I cannot trust you with my life. Not now." She averted her eyes to hide their sorrow. "I'm afraid I must go home if this is what running away with you entails."

"No," he replied without thinking.

She crossed her arms to steady herself, though her heart throbbed with pain at his agony.

"I am allowed to return home when I please," she replied. "That was our agreement. I was very firm on the matter."

"You know what kind of man I am," he told her with cool resignation. "Why would you come with me when you knew this might happen? Only to torment me?"

"I came with you because I had no other choice."

"No other choice?" he demanded, gesturing wildly about himself. "No other choice? You could have eloped! Returned to the opera house! Run away to Scandinavia! Become a mistress, for heaven's sake! You act like running away with me is so superior that it was all you had, so then why now can you suddenly return without a thought?"

"I don't want to be afraid anymore."

"Then why run off with the man whom you fear above all else?" he demanded, his features twisting behind his mask. "Why? To confront your fear...? Who am I to you? Man, angel, ghost, who? Who, Christine? Am I just your teacher, your guide, or am I your friend? Tell me who I am to you. I no longer know what you see."

She stared at him blankly, and he turned away to distance himself from the pain within his chest. Then there came a shaky inhale of breath from behind him, causing him to glance over his shoulder at the angel beyond.

"Who do you want to be?" she managed out, her eyes softening. "What do you want me to see?"

His eyes dove into hers, perusing their contents, trying to discover what she meant by her open question. Whatever she felt, he could not decipher it. Perhaps that was because she could not either.

"You know what," he told her solemnly.

His eyes found the dark interior of the mailbox again, and he withdrew a letter, its seal red wax and unbroken.

"Might I borrow your knife?" he asked, reaching out to her.

She retrieved it from beneath her skirts. Her eyes were averted as she handed it to him. There was a swift cut, dust, and the slide of parchment as he removed the letter from the envelope. Then he read:

"My dearest love,

My father insists that I write in French to make it good. The doctor says that he will leave us soon. The engagement is why I can live happy. Our wedding will be sad, but also happy, because I love you. My father is very happy for me. He will leave the world by peace because you will care for me. I thank Allah everyday I meet you. Blessings on you and Monsieur Khan.

Love,

Your Claire"

There was a signature in Farsi beneath the French name. Erik looked up to find Christine's forehead puckered as she continued reading.

"How terrible," she said. "He should have read this. We ought to take it to him. Where would he be, do you think?"

"Perhaps with this woman." He looked at the address, then back up at her. "Are you not leaving, then?"

"I am undecided for now."

He smiled faintly. It was poorly concealed by his mask.

She glanced back down the road where it meandered up a hill dotted with trees.

"How far is it?" she asked.

"On the outskirts of Brussels."

"Will we spend the night here?" she asked uneasily.

"No, no, I won't have us staying here."

"Well... you did say we had forty days."

He felt inclined to laugh. "I doubt they're counting, and they have already sent someone. We're not safe here. Besides, the bird likely symbolizes the end of my peace... as if I had any..."

"Well, we should bring them some things," she offered. "I have a bit of space in my trunk-"

"They can return later with me if they left anything."

"Should we at least bring the cat, though?"

"Perhaps..." He took a swift glance around, then back to her. "Where did she run off to?"

"Behind the house." She pointed in the general direction. "Last time I saw, that is."

He nodded, then went in to fetch a burlap sack. He proceeded to walk around the house in search of the swift-footed Siamese. Her favorite spot was the lilac bushes near the back door. Sure enough, upon pushing aside the branches, two blue eyes appeared.

"Ayesha, don't try me," he advised her.

Her tail twitched as her slanted eyes narrowed. He reached out for her collar through the leaves, and she remained still, teasing him, before darting away a few paces on black paws. She looked back at him and appeared to be smirking.

"I'm still not opposed to skinning you and lining my boots with your fur," he said, approaching her again with an unfurled hand. "Come here."

She scampered away and he pursued. Christine was waiting in front of the house, checking her watch with distaste, when she saw Erik dart around the house after the cat. Her eyes widened at seeing him in so fruitless a pursuit. Eventually she had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing. It was like the cat even knew what she was doing! Erik tried to scoop her up in the bag time and again, but she tiptoed around him with ease.

He needed help, so Christine ran around the house in the opposite direction to cut off Ayesha's escape. Instead, the mischievous little thing darted in between them, catching Christine off balance. Her skirts twisted about her ankles and she reached out for support, finding Erik's arm. He was so surprised by her touch that he fell down, too, and they found themselves in an exceedingly awkward position on the grass, with Christine atop him, and him lying beneath her, stiff as a board from the full sensation of her body.

She pushed herself off of him with haste, coloring vividly.

"Sorry, sorry," she stammered. "I-I think we need a different method of capture."

He stared blankly up at the sky before snapping back into sanity. He rose to his feet, his eyes refusing hers.

"Yes, I think so."

"Maybe you ought to use a treat," she told him, going to unlatch her suitcase.

After taking out a paper bag with a half-eaten cinnamon bun inside, she went towards where Ayesha crouched beside a tree, cleaning her paws with a pink tongue. She broke off a piece and offered it to the cat.

"Come on," she coaxed, shaking the treat gently to entice the creature. "Don't you want to be with your owner?"

To Erik's utmost surprise, the cat scampered forward and began to lick the sugar from Christine's hands. She smiled, quite taken with the little creature. Without warning, Erik threw the bag over the cat's head to a violent hiss of rage, then tied the top.

"Well that wasn't very nice," Christine said, frowning. "At least let her have the treat."

"She doesn't deserve a treat. She refused to come over to me and then sent you sprawling on the grass."

"Maybe because you frightened her."

"Well, she needs to eat less sweets, anyway. The daroga spoils her."

He handed the wriggling bag to Christine, then went to put their trunks and suitcases in a wheelbarrow.

"Come," he said. "We have to walk into town to get a brougham. It should only take ten minutes."

It took twenty, and by that time Christine's legs were numb with fatigue. They stopped to rest at some tables outside a café. Christine ordered herself a cup of tea. Erik avoided stares at the wriggling bag in his arms that incessantly hissed.

After she had finished, they caught a brougham to Brussels. Night had begun to tug at the rosebud sky when they arrived at the address on the letter, which appeared to be an apartment in a white building with peeling paint.

A porter with a large red mustache answered the door.

"Good evening," he said. "Are you here to inquire about room 3A?"

"No. We are visiting the occupants of room 1B."

"Ah..." He sized them up. "Wedding guests?"

"Yes," Erik answered promptly, though Christine's surprise was evident.

"Come inside, then. I'll store your bags for you while you visit."

They went down the hall to an oak door with "1B" written in peeling gold lettering on the surface. Erik knocked three times while Christine fiddled with her watch, still anxious from earlier.

The door opened just enough to reveal a brown eye set in a dark face. The eye brightened and the door swung open on its hinge to reveal a short Persian man beaming under a black mustache.

"Monsieur Erik!" he said. "I get my master. Come sit. Tea?"

Erik glanced over to Christine, who had folded her hands neatly at her waist. She nodded slightly.

"Yes, some tea," he replied.

"Food?"

"For Mademoiselle."

The servant went away through a little green dining room. Christine placed herself at the edge of the divan, her eyes sweeping over the Persian rug at her feet.

"They own an apartment, too?" she asked.

"No," he replied, shifting uneasily on his feet. "I believe this is where the bride must live."

The servant emerged from the dining room and went through another door to one side of a stone fireplace. A word of Farsi, and a man in a wheelchair appeared. His eyes were shut, and he wore a cobalt-blue robe. There was a speck of gray in his black hair, which ran down his cheeks in a nearly-trimmed beard.

"Erik, my friend," he said, smiling faintly.

"Just Erik will do, daroga," Erik replied coolly. "I'm not in the mood for your Persian formalities... Why are you smiling?"

"Perhaps I am happy to see you..." Khan's features relaxed.

"If you could see."

He laughed dryly.

"I have something of yours," Erik said, untying the bag in his arms.

Ayesha leapt out with her white teeth bared in a deep hiss, then she hopped into the Persian's lap, perfectly content. He ran a hand across her cream-colored fur.

"Thank you. She refused to leave..." Khan's brow furrowed. "But who else is with you?"

Erik glanced over at Christine. "A student."

"My name is Christine," she said brightly. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Khan fell silent for a moment before asking in a rather soft voice, "A student of architecture?"

"Music," she replied.

"Yes, a woman architect would be something of interest, I should think. But Erik, I thought you were-?"

"What I am and am not doing," Erik replied through gritted teeth, "is none of your concern. I am finding her a position in the opera here is all."

"I'm certain."

Erik rose as if he had been struck by lightning and grated out, "You have the audacity to doubt my words after I found a pool of blood on your bed? After you left me no sign you were alive?"

"Listen-"

"And is this all not paid for by me, this apartment, that house? You have no right to speak to me in that manner!"

"Erik!" Christine cried, though her cheeks colored at forgetting her place. She folded her hands in her lap and smiled cautiously to Khan. "Monsieur, I assure you I am his student, and it is exactly as he says..." Then she brightened with a question to ease the tension. "What is this wedding I hear about?"

"Yes, indulge us," Erik added, standing before the daroga. "I heard nothing of a wedding in letters. Nothing of anything."

"Well, it all came about rather quickly," Khan replied. "I promise you, Erik, I wanted to tell you, but I feared it might endanger you if the letter was somehow discovered."

"And the wedding?"

"We did not even know the girl two weeks ago. It was all very sudden. A merchant from Persia had come here to sell his wares, and within a month fell terribly ill. Consumption, we think. His daughter was left with the prospect of being alone and unprotected, so her father insisted she made the acquaintance of any gentlemen she could, even French, however little she spoke it. Darius was out purchasing some spices when he met her, and he went to her father to speak with him. At first, once Darius had explained he was a servant, and spoken far too highly of me, the man thought it would be best if I took her hand instead."

"You?" Erik scoffed. "A cripple?"

"Because I appeared to have money, which my servant did not. Darius did not hide the fact that I was an invalid. But I imagine they were wealthy in my country, wealthy enough that he expected her to marry above me. Of course, they had run out of options by then. Her father was entirely bedridden and had only days left. Darius helped the girl tend to him and became very fond of her, and of course I had no desire to keep her as a sort of nurse at my side when she could be happy with my servant. Her father agreed in order to preserve his daughter's happiness, and he was gone a few days later... The wedding is tomorrow morning. The poor girl is not ready for it, I fear: she hardly steps out of bed unless to help Darius make meals, but it will be better when she is married and can have someone to support her."

"How old is she?" Erik asked, his gaze icy.

"Why do you ask such questions? What does it matter? She has no one to care for her. At fifteen years of age, with no one who can care for her, it is perfectly acceptable for her to marry. Would you rather her be alone in the city?"

"What amount should I put on the check?" Erik said caustically.

"We will be using her father's money for it, none of yours... Please be gentle if you talk to her, no more of this bitter speech. She is still sick with grief."

The girl entered the room at that moment with the tea, which she set on a varnished coffee table. All of her appeared quite taken care of, from her red Persian attire to her black hair, which was pinned in a peculiar sort of braid with gold decoration. Her eyes, however, lay in dark pits.

Christine took a cup of tea from her with a gentle nod of her head, and the girl responded in kind, though stiffly. There was a prickling silence in the room. Darius came in with a plate of cakes and placed his hand on the girl's shoulder. She immediately leaned her head onto him with great fatigue.

They went back into the kitchen as soon as they had entered.

"Does she speak French well?" Christine asked as she stirred her tea.

"Yes," Khan replied. "She wants to be useful as a wife, so it only makes sense that she should speak French fluently..." He gestured towards the table, which surprised her, as she was unused to the sight of a blind man. "Please, eat. I imagine they will prepare dinner soon, but these cakes are excellent."

She went to take some while Erik sat forward in his chair to address Khan again.

"Do you think you are safe here?" he asked.

"More than the house," Khan replied. "And they would stand out in the city if they ventured here."

"But they are not after you, are they?"

"Of course not. She wants _you_."

"But why now? Decades of silence and _now_ she decides to send them after me?"

"Perhaps she wants more than just your head."

"She was never very interested in my _head_."

"Erik, you understand me, do you not? If you want to escape her, you need to leave the entire continent."

"You act as if I care about living. I do not. Once Mademoiselle is installed in an opera house worthy of her skills, I shall depart, and they can chase me down if they so desire."

"You cannot stay with this young woman," he warned, "unless you want to put her in danger, too."

"I can protect her."

"At least her decide if she wants that."

They both turned to her. The saucer rattled as she placed her teacup back on it.

"Could we step outside, Erik?" she asked gently.

"Of course."

He went to open the front door for her, and they exited into the hallway. She gathered herself as best she could.

"I want to go home. I can't do this."

"You said you would stay," he replied in a low voice.

"I didn't think we would be running around the world!" She sighed in exasperation. "I don't know what to do. I have to go home. There's nothing else I can think of."

"I can protect you."

"You've said that so many times, but why should you protect me? They don't care about me. I'm safer on my own... as are you. What if, while protecting me, you... you were hurt? Or even killed? I couldn't bear that."

"Listen to me-"

"I will stay with you tonight," she said firmly, crossing her arms, "then I want to buy a ticket to Paris as soon as possible."

He turned from her, shutting his eyes in pain.

"If that is what you wish."


	6. Chapter 6: The Persian

**tw: suicide**

:::::::::::::::::::::::::

The hotel was quiet. There was not even the creak of a floorboard.

Christine stared up at the ceiling, the space between her eyes knitting in thought. Light had begun to peek through the window, and in the distance, an early bird began to chirp.

Her throat stiffened in a silent scream. How could she possibly go back now? She had just given up everything to run with him, thrown rationality to the wind, and now she would simply return to her old frayed existence? There was nothing for her there. The opera house was full of broken dreams, and without Erik- phantom or teacher- it was empty. The soul had gone out of it. All passion had dried up.

The floor creaked in the room adjacent. Erik was out of bed again.

It tore her apart to leave him now, even when staying meant constantly looking over her shoulder and fearing for her life. She had asked him for his help, given him a shred of hope that they could regain their prior friendship, if now tense. All that was gone.

Her vision grew misty as the thought of him alone again wrapped itself tight. He would be left without a soul who knew his name.

Quite suddenly, she was out of bed and tying the laces of her boots. She pulled a silk shawl about her shoulders with a deep breath.

She would not go quietly into the night. It was not fitting.

She went to the next room and knocked on the door. It opened swiftly to reveal Erik in his shirtsleeves and full mask. His sparse hair stuck up on one side, so evidently the mask had been hastily placed.

Her face numbed.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"I... I don't have the time," she lied. "I forgot to wind my watch."

"Oh..." His gaze fell. "Yes, let me see."

He went back into the room. She waited at the doorway, polite and proper, but a string fixed itself around her waist and pulled her forth, just a step, right over the threshold.

"Five twenty-six," he informed her, staring down at his watch.

He turned back and gave a little start at seeing her inside his room. She would leave soon, wouldn't she? Why was she pressing further into his life?

She took another step towards him, shuffling her feet.

"What do you want?" he asked, setting down his watch upon the nightstand. "I don't believe it is the time."

She swallowed. Another step.

"What will you do?" she said quietly. "When I go?"

"That is mine to know. It is no concern of yours... Why should it be?"

"Please. Please tell me."

He averted his eyes again and took a step away from her. She had the power to pry anything from his lips, something no one had achieved before her, but if she came any closer, he might find himself in a pleading pile at her feet.

"I will go away," he said wearily, after a long pause. "That is all."

"Where?"

"I haven't decided."

"Is there nowhere safe?"

Her shoes shifted an inch closer. He backed up again, and the back of his knees hit the bedframe.

"The North Pole," he said with a bitter laugh.

She nodded in understanding and went over to the window, pensive. Her hand brushed against the cool glass.

"I don't know where to go," she whispered.

"The opera house."

"Do not answer that question with that again," she snapped with a tremor in her voice. "Every time, you say I should just go back, like I _can_. I died there."

"Died?"

She averted her eyes. "You know I did. My old self was murdered."

His silence following this statement spoke clearly that he understood.

"Perhaps I'm a bit glad of that, though," she added softly. "My old self was so naive, so-"

"Innocent."

"No," she argued. "Not innocent. I had seen death, in its most terrible form, and left everything I'd ever known behind... but I was naive. I still am."

"Why do you say that?"

She turned her eyes to his, examining their contents deeply. He found himself swaying beneath her gaze.

"Because I want to stay here," she answered tremulously. "I-I don't know what else to do but stay."

He had to force out his objection, "You cannot stay."

"I know that."

"Then why consider it? It is not an option. Why do you act like it is?"

She glanced back out the window, folding her lips. Then she turned towards him and found his gaze warm and entreating.

"You ought to know," she replied with resignation. "You should have known from the minute I left with you."

"Knew what?" he demanded, coming over to the window and turning her to face him. "Speak plainly."

Her eyes lowered. He tilted his head in concern, trying to catch a glimpse of her features.

"Are you crying?" he whispered.

"No," she replied softly. "No, I'm not."

He placed his hand tenderly against her cheek, causing her to step back in surprise, only to find a bit of peeling wallpaper behind her. His thumb swept across her jaw and tipped her chin up to look at him- delicately and with great care. She could feel her heart leap into her throat and pound ferociously.

"You are crying," he said, brushing away a teardrop that had found its way to her chin. "Why lie?"

She rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve. They burned with tears.

"I hate it when you cry," he whispered. His gentle voice wrapped around her like an embrace. "Do you know I hate it?"

"You love me."

Hearing it fall from her lips made it all the more real, and Erik faltered before replying, "Of course."

She let out a sob and tore away from him, going to lean against the opposite wall. Her body shook.

"Why does being loved make you cry?" he asked. "Do you wish I despised you-?"

"Why did you have to lie?" she managed out, turning to him with her eyes red and watering. "Why? You lied about everything, because you _loved_ me, and I loved you, why did everything have to fall apart? All those deaths and-"

"Loved me?" he breathed.

She wiped at her relentless tears. "You know I loved you. There was nothing in my world but you. No one understood me as you did. Meg, she didn't, she couldn't all my passions and my pain, but you... There is no one I can talk to like I do with you. But I have to shut my eyes if I want to talk now. If I opened them, I would not like what I see."

He reached up instinctively to the right side of his mask, testing the cool leather with his fingertips. She stepped forward from the safety of the peeling wallpaper and pointed at his face in accusation.

"You still think I care about that?" she said in a dangerous voice. "You still think I'm vain and stupid?"

"You are human."

"I would have your whole body covered just like your face," she retorted with fervor, "if only you were a good man!"

"I would be a lamb for you!" he cried.

Her features fell slack in surprise, then tightened, first between her eyes then her lips.

"I cannot live by promises," she retorted with a mournful air. "Your words mean nothing to me now."

"Nothing," he repeated softly.

He took a step forward, and she found herself once again against the wall. Her chest heaved.

"When I say I love you, that means nothing?"

His voice surrounded her. It wrapped around her and held tight.

"That... that is different."

"Then why say my words mean nothing?"

"Your words betrayed me."

"Then why do you continue to listen?"

That _voice_. How could it soothe her so, even though the source had torn her apart?

"Perhaps I am a fool," she said.

"What did you come in this room to do?" he demanded, quite suddenly fuming, his eyes fiery. "Mock me?"

"No-"

"Torment me?"

He came closer, driving her further into the corner. She swallowed and shook her head.

"N-no, I would never-"

"Then why do you do nothing but it!" he cried, cupping her face in his hands.

Her chest heaved. She feared her knees might give way, and her legs would collapse beneath her.

"Why do you seek me out if not to torture me?" he whispered, his voice gentle and soothing again.

She shivered as he ran his thumb across her jaw. She could feel the heat of his breath.

"You..." she whispered, breathless, "You have been tortured enough... I would never dream of hurting you more."

His lips parted. Her heart eased back into her chest at this admission, at the look in his eyes, then, as quickly as it had fallen, it surged up again, pushing her forward with sudden necessity towards the source of that beautiful voice, towards the man whose hands caressed her cheek with such care.

She felt his frightened inhale as their lips met. They were gentle, frightened, closed, but quite pressed. A few remaining tears streamed down her cheeks, but she wrapped both arms around his neck, holding him still against her trembling frame. His arms hung limp at his sides. She sought out his lips like oxygen, parting them delicately, and he found her waist with shaking hands that steadied upon meeting the lace of her nightgown.

He kept still as a dead man as she clung to him with desperation. She dragged him down with her until his chest heaved. Her hands pried at the mask, slipping it up higher and higher, until it fell to the ground in a heap of fabric and string.

A spark of confidence ignited within him at this gesture. He reached a trembling hand to her cheek, and she did the same, causing a shiver to run down his spine at the sensation of her soft hand against his raw flesh.

She inhaled sharply as his hand wandered from her cheek down to her shoulder. He was so gentle, so tentative, fearful that the slightest touch could send her from him, and yet daring to do so all the same. She would be gone soon, and this would be his last precious memory.

He tugged at her silk shawl, revealing a sliver of pale skin, and she pulled away, gasping for air, her eyes wide in surprise at her actions.

He stood before her, hanging off his own frame, as if a gust of wind might blow him away. The morning sun reflected off her wet cheeks, and as he tried to regain himself enough to speak, to say _something_ , she turned on her heels and fled.

"Christine!" he called, chasing after her.

She slipped into her room and locked the door. Her breath came in pants.

His footsteps echoed in the hallway, but they stopped outside her door. She waited for him to knock, but instead he shuffled away.

Perhaps she had come to torture him.

...

Two hours later, he did knock on her door. The train left at ten o'clock. They had two hours.

"We need to leave," he said.

There was no reply. He knocked again.

"Christine?"

"Coming," came a feeble voice. "I'm coming."

The door opened. Christine came out, holding her suitcase and hatbox. She wore a floral hat and her plain dress from the previous day. Her gaze dragged across the floor, too ashamed, too afraid to meet his eyes.

They departed silently. Perhaps Erik had dreamed it all up, the kiss. Perhaps he was going mad.

Without any sense of traveling, they were suddenly standing on a platform in the Brussels train station. Christine clutched her luggage in one arm, and her ticket waited restlessly in her hand. The wind was trying to pry it from her. Erik stood at her side, his features taut behind the leather mask.

"It should be here soon," he said with a blank stare.

She turned to him, blinking slowly, straining to see his expression through the mask. As his eyes began to reach for hers, she looked back down at the gray platform beneath her feet.

He glanced at his pocket-watch, then the clock in front of them. He snapped the cover shut.

"Late, as usual," he added with barely-concealed relief.

How he was still on his feet and not on his knees begging for her to come with him was beyond him. Perhaps he could try protect her. If she ran with him, if they ran far away, they would be safe.

"I have to go," she said faintly, solidifying her resolve. "You know I have to."

He did not reply.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"I..." She swallowed. "Thank you."

"What for?"

"Bringing me here... and letting me go."

His lips grew white under his mask. She could stay. He would die if he had to say goodbye to her again.

"You are safe in Paris," he told her stiffly. "I would not risk it for anything."

"And you will be safer without me to trouble you."

"Trouble me?" he asked, his lip rising in anger. "How could you possibly trouble me?"

She glanced up at him, folding her lip. "I... I don't-"

The train squealed into the station, covered in steam. It blew its whistle once before stopping at the end of the line, leaving the entrance to a passenger car directly in front of them. People flooded off. Couples, children, students...

 _"All aboard!"_

"Go on, Christine."

Her eyes were full to the brim with something, but he knew not what. She remained where she stood.

"Go on," he all but pleaded.

She took a hesitant step towards the train, then another, glancing back only once. He waved her away lifelessly. Her lips opened as if to speak, but she turned and continued towards the entrance to the train car.

With heavy steps, he too turned to leave. Lead coated his heart.

 _"Erik!"_

He wheeled around, his heart thundering in his chest. Had she come back? Of her own free will?

There was no sign of her. Only people, drifting back and forth, and a few unfamiliar faces pressed up against the windows to say their goodbyes.

She had already disappeared onto the train. She was gone for the last time, and now the wind mocked him with her voice.

...

"Are you coming to the wedding?"

Erik turned to his old friend in both disgust and confusion.

"Wedding?" he asked.

Khan gestured to his servant, who was pacing outside his bride's door.

"Ah," Erik said. "No. Why would I come to such a thing?"

"Well... why have you not left yet, then?"

"I pay for your apartment now, but am not allowed to remain here as long as I please?"

"I would welcome you into my home under any circumstance," Khan said, his shut eyes crinkling at the edges with kindness. Then they hardened. "But you are being hunted. It's not safe here."

"I've been hunted for some time. I'm finished with running and hiding. It's exhausting."

"You are going to sit here and let them take you?" Khan asked, shaking his head as his features tightened. "What has come over you-?"

"Take me?" Erik questioned, cocking his head. "Why use those words? You know they only want me dead."

"Of course, but not without the sultana as an audience."

"I am not at their mercy, and I would rather personally escort myself into Hell than set foot in her hall again. I imagine Hell shows more mercy."

"But how do you plan to outwit her men? She must have sent at least a dozen after you once she got word. I imagine she has them under pain of death if they return empty-handed."

"If I can outwit the French police, I'm certain I can do the same with them."

"The French police? You are being hunted by them, too? What have you been up to these past months-?"

"You ask so many questions!" Erik exclaimed, rising from his chair. "I don't give a damn about what you think! Why do you care if I live or die, anyway?"

"Because you are my friend," Khan replied calmly.

Erik's chest heaved and his eyes glowed with rage.

"Friend?" he said in a low voice. "You think I don't understand the meaning of that word? You brought me to that creature. I was still a boy, and you brought me to her so she could turn me into her thing. And you dare to call yourself my friend, as if I have no knowledge of what that is! You have never done anything for me except to save your own hide."

"I saved you."

"Saved what?" Erik sneered. "I was nothing."

"Can this wait?"

"Why?"

"Because it is their wedding day," Khan advised with a gentle wave of his hand to the waiting groom, "and I don't want you upsetting the bride. She's already in a terrible state."

"I wonder why..." Erik said with a sneer. Then he sighed wearily. "Leave me be, daroga."

"For now."

Khan wheeled himself over to the door where Darius stood, speaking softly to his bride in their native tongue. Erik poured himself a drink from the decanter, but let it sit, eying the amber contents. He needed something with a bite to it, and the daroga's watery liquor simply would not do.

As Erik tipped the cup to his lips, there came the snap!*** of a cord, and a clattering chair. He stiffened and dropped the drink onto the Persian rug.

Darius gave an inhuman cry of grief and began pounding on the door. His bronze features had drained to a sickly white. He shouted the girl's name. Khan called for Erik in a hoarse voice, and Erik answered swiftly, knocking the door down with a few tries, and the assistance of a distraught servant.

A figure lay in the center of the room. The girl was on the floor, pale and still. Her red veil still covered her face, all but her rosy lips. A broken chair lay beside her, and a coiled rope.

Darius gave another cry of pain, and Khan reached out to comfort him.

"Wait," Erik advised.

"Have you no shame?" Khan demanded in rage.

"Hush."

Erik knew death better than life. He bent down beside the girl to observe her, and found that her chest heaved ever so slightly. Her skin refused to drain of color, and her lips still bore the glow of life.

He placed two fingers upon her throat, sensing a fragile pulse, and turned back to Darius.

"She failed," he said calmly. "I recommend you care for her in another way than forcing her to become your wife-"

"We did not force her!" Khan cried. "It was her choice! Do not speak of what you do not understand. She is grieving!"

Darius was already lifting the girl up into his arms. Her red veil drifted from her head to the floor, and Erik went to inspect the rope and chair.

"Have you no decency?" Khan demanded.

He did not reply, so the Persian went out to comfort his servant.

The work was poor, that Erik could tell instantly upon examining the coiled rope. The chair had been kicked, from the distance it had gone, which was hardly possible. Perhaps she simply didn't know what she was doing. It had been a hasty attempt, a sudden decision, but somewhat planned.

Where had she found the rope, though?

Outside, the men were awakening the girl with prayers and gentle words. Erik went to fetch another drink, then stepped into the hall for a bit of quiet.

 _Have you no decency?_

He downed the glass.

...

For weeks, he kept to his hotel room. No one had come knocking yet. It would be best to wait until they did. He had considered going back to the house, but if they had already seen it, there was no point in returning. He wanted them to come.

His hands trembled for the keys of a piano or the strings of a violin. One day he went to a shop under the guise of buying an instrument, only to try them for hours on end until declaring himself unsatisfied.

Some were not so terrible, though. One violin in particular was of very fine quality, but it was not his. His sparked whenever his hand moved against the cool wood, and there was a deep, almost dark tone to the music he withdrew from it.

It still lay within the old house. He ought to retrieve it, but it was best to leave it there, for safe keeping.

He found himself at the daroga's apartment again one night, perhaps having poured himself a little much, but even so, he was completely unaware as to why he was there. Was he lonely? But why would he want to spend time with his leech?

Still, he let Darius pour him some wine (he detested tea, even when slightly inebriated) and he permitted the daroga to rattle on about the weather and other frivolities. The man avoided anything that might upset his rather worn-down companion, until it seemed he could not help himself.

"You loved her," he said simply.

"Whom?" Erik replied, eyes downcast.

"You think because I am blind I know nothing?" he sighed. "I am no genius, Erik, but I can tell what people are thinking, even you."

Erik chuckled dryly.

"I was in love once," Khan continued, "and when she was gone, I behaved quite the same as you do now."

"Your wife died. And you are mistaken. I love no one. Love is useless... She was a student, nothing more."

"Why did you take her on?"

He shrugged, swirling his wine. "She had talent."

"You've never shared your music with anyone."

"I have played for your Persian courts, have I not?"

"But _your_ music. I caught a glimpse once, when I heard it through your window. I couldn't help myself."

"I should have expected you to eavesdrop at some point."

"I listened to one minute of it before I had to pull myself away."

"It was one of my earlier pieces, I admit-"

"It burned me. I felt that if I listened any longer, I might die."

"Why do you think I would share that with a young woman, then?"

He craned his neck to glance into the girl's bedroom, the door of which was open a crack, as Darius had gone inside. She sat at her vanity as he brushed her dark hair.

"Speaking of, what are you doing with her?" he asked the Persian.

"She married him a few days after you left- of her own volition. We are taking care of her the best that we can. Grief can cause people to do mad things."

"Indeed..."

"Of course, you would not know that."

"I know it keenly," Erik replied, clenching his fist in his lap.

"You say you have never loved. How then can you grieve the loss of what you never had?"

"You fool, I have loved more deeply than you can imagine!" Erik exclaimed, rising with his eyes filled to the brim with rage. He swayed a bit where he stood. "You insist on testing me! You push me to the brink! Yes, I loved her! Damn you! I can count on one hand the number of people who could look at my face in Persia without reeling. Even when you had your sight you asked me to don my mask. And that horrible creature had me wear painted fabric for my 'performances,' but Christine, she... she..."

Before he could restrain himself, he had begun to cry into his hands. The wine had taken away his pride.

Khan's features softened.

"She loves you?" he whispered. "This woman loves you?"

"She despises me," Erik retorted, his voice crackling with drunken tears. "Everything is ruined, everything."

"She went with you here, though. Why would she if she does not love you-?"

"What do you want?" he demanded with fury. "Why do you pry me open till I bleed? Does it give you a thrill, to have me at your mercy? Is it your Persian blood-?"

"I want to help you, Erik. That's all I've ever wanted to do, whether you think so or not... But I will say, if you are determined to die, you may as well do it where she is, albeit away from her gaze."

"I cannot go to Paris."

"Because the French are after you, you said? Will you tell me why that is? Dark business dealings, I expect-?"

"Be quiet!" Erik snapped again. "You know nothing! You have no right to know anything more!"

He rose and threw on his cloak. His gaze was fiery.

"I don't know why I come here time after time," he growled. "You shall not see me again."

"I only want to help."

The front door slammed in his face, and Erik vanished into the night.

He got on the earliest train to Paris the next morning, even at the risk of being discovered. He had taken no precautions save his mask and false papers, which were still combined with Christine's.

Was the daroga toying with him, or did he honestly think she might love him? But why would she? He knew she loved his music, but what else could she possibly see in him?

"Tickets," the conductor called, sliding open the door to Erik's car.

He extended his out. It was punched with no questions asked.

The law was so easy to defy. Pity only a few had discovered that fact. Most criminals were such because of poor circumstances, not deliberate attempts. It was such a thrill.

He was tired of it, though. Tired of running, hiding, making false papers, aliases, all of it was exhausting. He wanted to go somewhere quiet, maybe by the sea. The coast of Africa might do. Or Greece, Greece was poetic, but perhaps too close.

Scandinavia. It came quite suddenly to him. Why not run to Scandinavia? The idea of the Persians shuffling through snow and ice was quite amusing, but the idea of living in Christine's country...

Would she come with him there? It would be safe. He knew it would be safe. It had to be.

"Lille, next stop!" a conductor called.

Two older women behind him shuffled around their luggage, and then a little family with a baby, who chose that time precisely to start wailing.

A few occupants emitted poorly-stifled groans. Erik found himself intrigued by the little creature, who was wrapped up in pastel blankets inside a white bassinet. Children had always fascinated him, especially how they grew within their mothers. It was wonderful science, when the fates aligned. His face had been forgotten in the womb, left incomplete and warped.

He had heard that people were unable to remember memories before two years old, but he could still hear his mother's cry of grief at his birth. It still stung like fire.

The train continued down the line. He leaned back and tilted his hat down to cover his eyes to rest, though he had no intention of sleep.

His eyelids grew heavy and fell shut. Just a moment...

 _"Erik!"_

His eyes snapped open. Most other passengers were retrieving their luggage. The train began to squeal to a stop.

Had he slept? Without a single cruel dream?

"Paris!" a man called. "Last stop! Everyone off!"

He retrieved his suitcase and joined the exiting crowd. Another baby was shrieking. A child whined for his mother, and was answered swiftly with a sweet. There was a man arguing with his wife, another couple holding hands, and yet another fussing over their well-dressed son, who stared directly into Erik's eyes.

"Oh!" the child's mother said upon finding his gaze. "Forgive him." She turned back to her child. "It's rude to stare, darling."

He would trade places with every single one of them. That was the reason he kept to himself so desperately; he didn't want to know what he was missing. To have a family, or even a child, a sister or brother, someone who did not shun him... it was impossible.

Christine was all that could grant him some semblance of that, but he would not let her lose herself in doing so.

The knife turned again in his heart.

The station was bustling. It was always easier to disappear in a crowd. He moved through them like a shadow- unnoticed, unmolested. Children stared at his full mask, but everyone else paid no mind.

He needed to return to the opera. How, he knew not. Perhaps they had not discovered most of his hiding places and he could still find his way through them. They had likely declared a premature victory and left the other secrets alone.

Oh, to see her on that stage again! To hear her!

The first time she had set foot on that varnished floor she had been wide-eyed and stiff as a startled deer. The last, she entered as if taking the stage for her own. No one else had a right to it save her, after all. No one else could give vibrant life to the music of love, anger, laughter, and tears.

His pace quickened with need. His familiar places were found with ease, and soon he was hidden in a box, observing dancers in white onstage, their curls tied up in colorful bows.

Madame Giry stood in front, tapping her cane minutely to the music. The orchestra was languid. They played as if asleep, but then, it was quite repetitious.

They still needed to replace that oboist, though.

"Do I need to fetch a surgeon?" Madame Giry remarked. "Have you broken your legs, as you cannot manage a simple rond-de-jambe?"

She sounded shrill. Erik leaned in with curiosity. The goings-on in the opera house had always amused him to no end.

"Again!" she cried.

The girls filed back into their original positions.

A few members of the chorus had arrived in the wings. He recognized hardly any. Most must have not dared return after the events.

"Stop, stop, stop!" Madame Giry called, clapping her hands. "We must go to the mirrors if you cannot see how pathetic that was. Come! Quickly!"

They exited the stage. Meg hung her head low in the rear of the group.

Members of the chorus emerged from behind the curtains, including what appeared to be a tenor and baritone by their respective sizes. There was a young woman with them, perhaps a mezzo-soprano. She had done her brown hair in ringlets, not unlike Christine.

"From the beginning of Act II," the director said.

The woman opened her voice, raised her arms, and promptly lifted herself to the soaring height of a soprano.

Erik's blood drained. Where was Christine? Had she arrived too late to join this production? Had she not managed to set foot on the stage again?

He slipped down to where the dancers practiced in front of their mirrors. Meg's eyes were glossy. Her mother's were fierce.

"One, two, three, again!" she cried.

He needed her undivided attention. He would have to risk her fetching the police.

A red curtain slipped and fell to the floor.

"Ghost!" a new girl squeaked.

"Silence!" Madame Giry cried, her voice strained. "There are no ghosts. How dare you speak of such things now!"

The girl bowed her head.

Erik began to hum, filling the room with it, like a musical gust of wind. All of them felt it. The girls grew white. Meg's knees knocked together, but her gaze had become steely.

"Go to the stage," Madame Giry commanded. Her eyes blazed. "Go!"

The girls trailed out eagerly. Meg lingered.

"Do not say a word of this," her mother advised. "Not a single word. Say they are imagining things."

"Should I get the police-?"

"No. I won't have any more dead."

Meg dragged her feet out the door and pulled it shut. Her mother took a key from her skirts to lock it.

"Where have you taken her?" she demanded.

He remained hidden, his knuckles turning white.

"Where is she?" Madame Giry asked again.

"She did not return?" Erik whispered.

"Yes, she did, and then disappeared without a trace. Do not lie to me."

"She did not return here?" he repeated, rage blooming within him.

"No. No, she... Where is she then, if not with you? Where is she?"

He fell back against the wall. No. _No._ Had they seen her with him? But how? Perhaps not, perhaps...

His voice came out crackling.

"Where can I find the Vicomte de Chagny?"


	7. Chapter 7: The Boy

"I've told you, Philippe. I despise them."

Raoul leaned back in his armchair, eying the bottle of wine and assortment of cheeses on the coffee table. His brother issued a sigh from where he sat across from him, illuminated by the firelight. Rain had begun to patter on the windows.

"It would do you some good," Philippe replied kindly, "to be out of this house."

"I _have_ been out of this house. For three weeks, with you, in Naples."

"But with _people_. You've been away from people for some time now, to rest, after your ordeal, but you should try to go back to normalcy now."

Raoul's gaze darkened. "You say people, but I know you mean women."

"Anyone."

"Anyone well-bred enough, I assume?"

Philippe ignored him. "Friends, family-"

"I have no friends here, not for another month, and both our sisters will only visit then, too."

"Will you keep yourself holed up even then?" Philippe entreated. "Camille will bring her new baby, and Louise's boys would be very disappointed not to see you-"

" _Enough_ ," Raoul pleaded.

He rose and slipped a glass of red wine into his hand. The contents swirled wearily.

"At least return to the Navy," the Comte insisted, beginning to gesture vaguely in his exasperation. "Or buy a sailboat on the Mediterranean, I don't care, but do _something_. You shouldn't be wasting your time like this. A young man in your position, with your whole life ahead of you, holed up in his room with the curtains pulled shut. It's a waste, especially after being as close to death as you were... I won't lose you like that again."

Raoul's lip twitched. His gaze was violent and unrelenting as he turned to stare into his brother's eyes. Without a word, he downed the glass of wine in two swallows.

"I'm going to bed," he said, slamming the empty glass onto the table.

He turned on his heels, towards the stairs.

"If there is something you need to say," his brother called after him, rising from his own armchair with a weary frame, "say it. Don't waste more time than you already have."

The young vicomte waited at the base of the stairs, facing away from his brother. He dug his hand into his waistcoat and fidgeted with his pocket watch. Then, without the slightest turn of his head, he continued up the steps.

"You're acting like a child!" Philippe accused.

"You called her a child, too!" Raoul retorted, rounding on his brother. "He called her a child, and so did you! All of you! Made her feel like she didn't belong, like she was worthless!"

"She didn't belong, Raoul. We did nothing to encourage that thought! It was the truth."

"Then I don't belong here, either! We both grew up together-"

"You spent two months by the sea!" Philippe exclaimed in exasperation as his brother folded his arms. "She was a childhood friend, and the daughter of a penniless fiddler! Move on with your life. She has moved on with hers. After her trials, as you describe them, she ought to have some peace. Did you think adapting to our lifestyle would be simple for her? Did you think it would ever be a possibility to marry an opera girl?"

Raoul clenched his fist, shaking his head. His voice crackled as he spoke.

"Why does my life matter so much to you?" he demanded. "It wouldn't matter at all if you had married. I could be with whomever I chose. It's all because you think I have to continue the family line, since all your time is spent in the arms of ballet girls-"

"I will not be spoken to like that by my own brother!"

"Then disown me!" Raoul cried, casting up his arms in disarray. "Throw my inheritance away! My title, all of it! I would much rather be a penniless fiddler myself if I could do as I pleased. Good riddance to it all!"

Philippe was left open-mouthed in horror as his brother fled up the stairs. He called after him in vain, and by the time he had decided to follow him, pursue this argument to the end, the door was shut tight. His brother was sealed up on the other side.

What was he going to do with that boy? he wondered, running a hand through his chestnut hair.

Perhaps he ought to finish that bottle of wine and go straight to bed. Raoul would come to his senses eventually. Imagine, him giving up his inheritance! It was absurd. He would last a day, maybe only an hour.

He let out a sigh as he went back downstairs. They had argued so much like that, his father and him. Day and night, about his sisters, his mother, his friends, everything... He had never wanted that for Raoul.

As he sat back down in an armchair, prepared to remain there all night rather than drag himself upstairs again, a servant came toward him with a telegram in his gloved hand.

"Monsieur le Comte," he said through a dark mustache, "this arrived for your brother."

"From whom?" Philippe asked, taking it with disinterest.

"He did not say."

Philippe nodded and dismissed him. He eyed the square note with "Le Vicomte de Chagny" inscribed flawlessly on the front before turning it over.

His brow furrowed. There were only three numbers written on the back—scratched, more like. Perhaps it was from one of his brother's sailor friends trying to be clever. What a boy Raoul still was.

"Give this to my brother," he told a passing maidservant, who quietly bowed her head and started upstairs.

Raoul had firmly shut himself up in his room. The curtains were closed, the lights off, and he sat at his desk in agony. His blonde curls were disheveled from rough fingers.

He knew he had no right to be behaving in this manner if Christine was happy. She had made her decision, but how could she be safe still, and content with it, while walking beside a murderer? He might have let her set foot into a trap, even, and if not, he still found precious little solace in the image of her smiling on some far-off shore. She was not with him.

All he needed to know was that she was well, and he would do his best to move on. It was that uncertainty that clouded his mind.

As he delved deeper into melancholy thought, of the image of Christine locked away with that _thing_ , a knock came at the door.

"Monsieur le Vicomte?" the maidservant called.

"Not now," he replied, melting further into his chair.

"It's a telegram, Monsieur," the maidservant added. "Would you like me to-?"

"Telegram?"

Who would have sent him a telegram? Christine?

"Who sent it?"

"I do not know, monsieur."

Had Philippe told her to say that? Regardless, he went to open the door and was presented with the square note. He took it in confusion, but gave a slight nod to dismiss her.

Without looking up, he shut the door, his eyes fixated on his own name. Where had he seen that penmanship before? That sharp black ink? Certainly not from Christine's feminine hand. Her words were very round in shape, and never so extravagant.

He turned it over to find, curiously, three numbers:

 _305_

For a moment, he stared at it, unblinking as his heart began to race, then stumbled as the wind was knocked out of him.

No. No, he must have been mistaken. This was some trick of the light.

He turned it over, then back. The numbers remained.

Who could have sent it? The men had been taken in by police, both of them, and sentenced. That left only...

He rummaged in his dresser for a pistol. He had gone to great lengths to procure it without his brother's knowledge, even placing it in a particularly thick sock for concealment. It was withdrawn now, and loaded.

His brother would be in bed soon. He waited a mere fifteen minutes before venturing out his door, the pistol concealed inside his jacket.

Thunder crashed outside. He crept down the stairs, staying close to the railing. The servants were cleaning up the cheese and wine in the adjacent room. The furnishings were suddenly splashed with light, followed by a rumble.

He would have to leave before they noticed. His brother could not know of this.

He went down the rest of the stairs swiftly to where his cloak hung on the rack beside the door. After fastening it around his shoulders, he slipped outside into a proper downpour. The streets were slick and running with filth beyond the front gate. Paris loomed in the distance.

The horses would be skittish. Still, there was no chance of finding a hansom this late in such a storm. A horse would have to do.

He went into the barn and found one that was less upset than the rest- a rather docile-looking white mare. She was eager to be let out, and started the moment he urged her on. Lightning crackled overhead.

 _Of all the nights..._

...

Erik waited inside the abandoned house. The ceiling dripped in three places, and the lack of rhythm or consistency was pulling his muscles steadily tighter.

A stray cat had found its way into the cabinet. He could hear it rummaging around as he sat in a chair at the kitchen table, waiting.

Was this a good idea? He needed to know if the boy had seen Christine, yes, but from what Madame Giry had said, it was unlikely she had even remained in Paris long enough to cross paths with him. Perhaps she had gone to Italy to find him, though, or to another opera house on her own, maybe in Bordeaux. She could have done a great number of things.

He should have made her stay with him. It would have been better. He had been a fool to think her safer in Paris than beside him.

The rain was dying down outside, though the thunder continued to roll. Would that keep the boy from coming?

Ah, no. The Vicomte appeared in the one grimy window with a cloak held up past his ears. Erik lit a match to reveal his masked face in the dark house.

The boy immediately tensed as his eyes reflected the flame. It extinguished.

Erik's lasso snaked out into his hand. The boy would not have come unarmed, and after their last meeting, Erik knew not to take any chances with him.

The door swung open. Raoul entered with his pistol at the level of his eye. Under different circumstances, Erik might have been amused, but instead he rose to his full height and gestured to a chair with a stiff arm.

"Have a seat, boy," he said in a low voice. "You owe me a favor, do you not? I did save you from this place."

"Then why bring me back?" the boy accused. His cloak was dripping onto the floorboards. "Did you do it after all, then-?"

"This has nothing to do with you. I don't give a damn about you anymore, and even if I did, I would never be so careless." His lips tensed as the boy put a finger on the trigger. "If I die then she may suffer the same fate."

Raoul's hand lowered and his eyes widened in horror. "Are you _threatening_ her-?"

"Ignorant boy," he growled, "do not test me... Will you not sit? Do you not want to have a respectful discussion?"

"Respectful?" Raoul scoffed.

"Very well." Erik sat down with ease, though his fist clenched as he placed it on the table. He lit a match and dipped it into a large candle at the center to give them a bit of light. "I want to know if you have seen Christine first. It is vital that I know, for her sake."

"Why should I tell you anything about her?" Raoul retorted, his features taut with anger. "Did she escape from you? Is that why you ask? What did you do to her, you worthless-!"

The pistol was snatched from his hand and thrown across the room. Two hands grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pushed him against the wall, hard enough that he wheezed. The phantom's eyes were burning into his very soul.

"I want to kill you," Erik whispered, shifting a hand to grasp the vicomte's throat. "Know that I want to kill you, and I can, with surprising ease. I could do it right now."

He tightened his grip until the boy squirmed.

"I do not want to harm Christine," Erik hissed. "But others might, and if they do because of your incompetence, then I _shall_ kill you... Now I need a prompt answer from you, and no more questions!"

Erik released the boy. He fell to the floor, limp as a rag doll, gasping and wheezing.

"Now, have you heard from her?" Erik asked calmly.

"No," Raoul managed out, rubbing his throat. His knees knocked together as he tried to stand. "I was in Naples... I haven't seen... or heard from her."

"Nothing?"

"No. Of course not, after-" he faltered as his cheeks reddened. "But I thought she was with you. She told me she had gone with you..." He looked up into the masked man's burning eyes. "What danger is she in?"

"Perhaps none. That is why I have come here for answers. There have been... strange occurrences..." His focus drifted for a moment before he continued. "Where might she have gone, in your noble opinion?"

"Anywhere. It's Christine. But she would have told someone, especially because of you. She would never let someone worry about her."

"She said nothing. Madame Giry told me she disappeared shortly after arriving. She paid them a visit, it seems, and then vanished without a word. Very unlike her, yes, _so_..."

Erik gestured vaguely to the stairs leading down into the cellar. His smoldering gaze had darkened.

"What happened, the night you were abducted?" he asked.

Raoul turned to the stairs with confusion etched on his features. He looked back at the phantom with a rather disgusted expression.

"What does that matter-?"

"The more time we waste, the longer it will take me to reach Christine!" Erik interrupted with fervor. "Answer me swiftly without question! Now what happened?"

"I was on my way to a costume ball," Raoul explained, still rather confused. "We were both supposed to go, but she said she felt ill-"

"So she was supposed to be in the carriage with you? No one else?"

"Yes. Only us... and the driver, of course-"

"How long had you two been planning to go to this ball?"

"Three weeks, or two... I think... it's so distant..." He shook his head in memory. "She had been excited about it, let me have her fitted for a costume and everything. And then, the day of, she wasn't feeling well, but she wouldn't let me stay home."

"So you were in the carriage alone? Without a word to anyone about this change in passengers?"

"Yes."

Erik's lips beneath his mask tightened in distaste.

"And then?" he prodded.

"We stopped in a secluded place. I assumed the horses were being difficult, but then the door was opened, and I was pulled out by two men... or three... but I think two. It was so dark-"

"Were they French?" Erik interrupted carelessly.

"I don't know. It was so dark. They put chloroform over my mouth, and then I woke up in the cellar, chained to the wall... But... yes, the men who kept me were French, but once..." Raoul's eyes glazed over, and his mouth fell open. "I thought I was dreaming. I never gave it much thought."

"Gave what much thought?"

"Well, I could hardly make out any words, but... there were two foreigners arguing with my captors. I cannot remember what day they came, but I think it was early on, before I became ill. They were upset about something, furious. I couldn't make out what they were saying, though-"

"Did they sound Persian?"

"Persian?" Raoul asked, blinking fast. "I don't know what Persians sound like... But Persian, as in...? You built for the Shah, Madame Giry said... Are they after you now? Did you-?"

"They're after Christine," Erik interrupted. "They must have heard about the opera house, and decided that the best way to draw me out," he clenched his fist against the table, "was to use her... I thought your case was an isolated incident, but the lack of a ransom, and the reasoning of the two men... They were after _her_."

"They have her?" the Vicomte said, his eyes wide and his pallor ghastly. "They have her like they had me? How long has it been? Oh, _God_."

Erik rose wearily and pushed his chair back. Raoul was staring at the ground in horror.

"I have no further need of you," Erik said simply. "Go home."

He turned to leave, and had already begun fastening his cloak when Raoul rose with determination, slamming his pistol against the table.

"I'm coming with you," he said.

Erik would have laughed, but given the circumstance, he scowled.

"You are of no more use to me," he said tersely.

"I can die."

Erik turned to him in mild confusion. The rain had slowed to a slight pattering on the window.

" _Die_?" he questioned.

"Yes." Raoul swallowed. "If my death can save her, then by all means, use it."

Erik's eyes trailed along the floor. He continued fastening his cloak as his gaze rose to meet the Vicomte's.

"You are a navy man?" he said.

"Yes."

"So you can follow orders?"

Raoul's jaw clenched. " _Yes_."

"Then do so, perfectly, and above all else, be silent, or else I very well might kill you myself."

He turned. Raoul only hesitated for a moment, to glance at his pistol, before following the masked man out with a writhing stomach. If he had to work alongside a murderer to save Christine, he would do it without question.

"Meet me at the train station in the morning," Erik told him under his breath. "Eight o'clock. I will leave without you if you are not prompt."

"Where will we go from there?"

"Brussels."

"And if she is not there?"

A shiver ran down Raoul's spine as he strained to keep his gaze level with the phantom's, whose eyes were at once harsh and cold, while also burning with intensity.

"Then the ends of the earth," Erik replied.


	8. Chapter 8: The Story

**This was originally posted as part of chapter 7, but due to the insane length that chapter was, I made it into two parts. I did add a bit extra for you guys, though.**

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Christine traced patterns on the frayed wallpaper to amuse herself, or hummed a bit of Mozart or Meyerbeer when she knew no one could hear. In her first days, she had tried to wriggle out of the restraint around her ankle. This had proved pointless, as the rope was bound tight in an unfamiliar knot that her fingers could not unwind.

They kept her in a little room with a creaky bed pressed up into the corner. She was bound to it day and night, even for meals, and her knees ached from it.

She had lost count of the days. They had not found her knife yet, so she could have carved into the wallpaper to keep track, but that knife was also her only hope of escape. The moment they discovered it, all would be lost.

When she had the opportunity, she mused every night, she would retrieve her knife, cut her bonds, and run.

But what if there was someone outside? she wondered. Or two? Or three? She would have to use her knife in other ways if that happened, or else risk being caught.

 _Murder._

Bile rose in her throat. She tried to deny the fact of it, but she might very well need to kill a man in order to free herself. If she did not escape with the intent to do so at any cost, then she would not get far. That was why she had not yet made an attempt. She kept insisting _one more day, one more day._

It felt like years. It seemed like a month, but it felt like years.

She had memorized her captors' schedules. A bearded man brought her a meal in the morning, generally porridge, and remained outside her door for most of the day. Then, in the evening, a relatively younger man, perhaps only twenty-five or so, would bring her dinner. It was at this time that he guarded the door, and another stood outside.

They knew Erik would come at night. She hoped he might not, though, or they else they could very well kill him. Her nightmares had been full of him in a deepening pool of blood, his white mask broken in two halves.

He would come for her soon, though. She did not have much time left.

One morning, after a night of tossing and turning, she woke in her creaky little bed to find a man sitting in the corner. He was in a chair that had not been there previously. Her vision was still misty from sleep, and the corner was quite dark without the light of a window, so she could not make him out. Were they staying with her now? Did that mean Erik was coming soon?

She sat up in bed and pushed her feet to the side in a position that would not grind the rope against her ankle. The figure stiffened.

"Mademoiselle?" came a familiar voice, worn and calming.

"Monsieur Khan?" she said quietly. "A-am I going mad?"

"No, my dear. You are quite sane."

"What are you doing here?"

"I might ask you the same," he replied mournfully, folding his hands in his lap. "Erik will have realized by now that you are not in Paris."

"He went to Paris?"

"He wanted to see you... I expect they were waiting for him to leave, discover you missing, and then return to find you."

"But why are you here? Are we both bait?"

"No, only you." He exhaled wearily. "Erik pretends not to care about me, so I am of no worth in that respect. I am only here to keep my servant in line. He is waiting for Erik to return to our apartment."

"But how did they know all this? Were they watching us the whole time?" She shuddered. "That seems impossible."

"Yes..." the daroga croaked. "It does..."

"Then?"

He rested his head in his hands with great fatigue.

"I do not want to think too deeply on it," he said. "It does not matter now."

"I suppose not," she admitted, her stomach beginning to churn. "Where will they take you and Erik, when he comes?"

"Persia... And I hope you have realized that you will be coming with us."

"Why do they need me?"

"They want him to do something. I don't know what, but it seems not only to kill him. This is too much effort for that. They want to use you to make him do as they please- which is better than the alternative. He will protect you." He lifted his head. "Are you hungry at all?"

"They will bring breakfast soon."

"But are you hungry?"

She looked down at her stomach. It was gnawing against her ribcage.

"Perhaps a little," she admitted, "but I'm fine."

"Here," he said, reaching into his pocket. He brought out a handful of sweets and extended them out to her. "They're not much, but they will help."

"Thank you," she told him, taking all but two. "Why do you have them-?"

"You can take them all, don't worry."

"But don't you want some?"

"I don't like sweets."

"Then why do you have them?" she asked as she withdrew the last two from his hand. She began to unwrap them as she went back to her bed.

"I give them to children when we go to the market," he explained.

"That's very kind of you... and very fortunate for me." She lowered her gaze. "They feed me, but... sometimes I think they forget, or..."

She shrugged nonchalantly and popped a candy into her mouth. Her eyes shut in bliss.

"Forgive me," Khan said mournfully.

"Oh, no, monsieur," she pleaded, pushing the candy to one side of her mouth. "You played no part in this."

"I should have known this would happen, if only I had realized the extent of it."

"Extent of what?"

His features softened. The kind expression reminded her of her father.

"His love for you," he answered.

She pushed the candy into her cheek. The space between her eyes knitted in thought.

"Will they kill me?" she whispered.

"No, mademoiselle, no. Erik would not let anything happen to you, and he is very gifted at negotiation."

"Do not lie to me," she pleaded, her eyes welling up. "I'm not a child. I understand that you are trying to be kind, but I don't need kindness now. What are they going to do to me once they have him?"

"I don't know," he answered earnestly. "But they will not kill you, or harm you. It would infuriate Erik, and they would not dare do such a thing if he is cooperating."

His eyebrows rose above his closed eyes. She adjusted the rope against her ankle as it had begun to dig into her skin again.

"I have a very important question to ask you," he said. "if you are well enough to answer it."

"I am quite well. What is the question?"

"Quite frankly, mademoiselle... Do you love him?"

She bowed her head. Her stomach twisted, or was it something else? Whatever it was, it hurt terribly.

"I shouldn't," she said.

"How so?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, very much," he insisted. "If you love him, then you can be manipulated as well."

She chewed the remaining sliver of candy in her mouth until it dissolved. Her eyes were downcast.

"If things were different, yes... I should think so," she said. "But I shouldn't love him the way things are."

"Why not?"

"He did unforgivable things to me, and others."

Khan leaned forward on his elbow. "What sort of things?"

"It's a rather long story."

"We have nothing but time, mademoiselle."

"Well, yes, I suppose so... but..." She rose from the bed and took a step over to him, as long as her bond would allow. "If I tell you, I want you to tell me why these men are after him."

His features darkened around his eyelids.

"That is not a proper story for a young woman to hear," he said.

"I need to know."

He sighed. Every sound he made was languid and worn. The man himself did not appear as old, though, as his mannerisms might suggest.

"Then," he said, "I will describe it as well as I can for your ears, once you have told your part."

She sat back down on the edge of her bed. It creaked beneath her frail weight.

"Take your time," he said. "We have much of it, and I do not wish to cause you any more pain than you have already endured."

She inhaled shakily, then folded her hands over her knee.

"He pretended," she began softly, "to be something he was not."

"What, might I ask?"

Her cheeks reddened. "When I was younger, my father, who played the violin, said that one day the Angel of Music would come to me. I was so young... He died when I was still young, only sixteen... I went to the conservatory in Paris to sing in operas, but... Well, Madame Giry, who took me in after my father died, thought I ought to be a dancer. So I did that, but I was never any good."

She inhaled, pausing a moment to think. Khan waited patiently.

"Then one night," she continued, "I missed my father terribly... I found a quiet corner of the opera, and I sang, to myself. I wanted desperately to sing onstage, but I thought I wasn't good enough... Then I heard a voice, from above me. It crept into my ears like magic. It asked, in a very cold way, 'why do you cry?' because I was crying as I sang.

"Well, I thought it must have been the ghost that everyone said haunts the opera. I nearly screamed and ran, but his voice softened, as it sounded like a 'he,' a very soft, very gentle 'he.' And I thought that it did not sound like a ghost should. It sounded rather musical. Angelic. So I asked if he was the angel of music, and after a moment of hesitation, he replied that he was. My father had indeed sent him to me... or so I thought.

"You may think me so naive for believing such a thing, but he used his voice in such a way that I had to believe he was an angel. No mortal man possesses such a voice as he does."

"I do not think you naive," Khan told her consolingly. "If I were you, I would have thought the same. Grief can blind us to reality."

Her body relaxed a little at this admission. She released her skirts, which she had been unconsciously winding into a knot.

"Well... I was put in the lead role for Hannibal when our usual lead refused to sing. The ghost had been tormenting her, you see- everyone, really. I sang my first opera like my soul was leaving my body, I tell you, and... one of my childhood friends was watching in a box. He visited me in my dressing room after the performance. The Angel of Music had made me promise not to love anyone here on earth, though, only in Heaven. I tried to explain to Raoul, but he thought I was being playful.

"When he left, to get ready for dinner with me, the Angel was furious. I emphasized my devotion to him, and he softened. His voice fell around me like a veil. I felt myself falling into a sort of dream, it seemed. His voice has such an intoxicating aspect to it... I fell through a mirror, through shadows and candlelight, and he was all around me, quite like a ghost. Everything was _him_.

"When I woke from my dreamlike state, I saw him as a man, bent over his masterpiece. He had a great organ beneath the earth, you see. He was so deeply engrossed in his work that he did not notice me wake.

"I became fixated by his mask, as he wore a white half-mask over one side of his face. I thought to myself, why would he wear that? Perhaps he was someone I knew, trying to hide his face. But I didn't really think at all. I was propelled my curiosity alone, insatiable curiosity. I simply tore it off, desperate to know what lay beneath, even if it killed me, and... and he raged. I hardly even saw his face before he tried to grab me in his anger. I was fleeing for my life from a madman.

"But then I tripped, and he was over me. He could have hurt me. He could have done all sorts of things in that moment, but he fled, away from me, sobbing wretchedly. He came to me again on his knees- no, no, his stomach, crawling like a snake, begging for my acceptance... He didn't seem to realize that _he_ had terrified me to my wits end, not his face. I am hardly repulsed by his face at all now. It is simply him.

"After that, we lived in a strange state. There was no reason to change our routine, and I feared what he might do if I did. Our lessons were cold, but I feared leaving, even though I feared him more. I still loved him, though, as my teacher and friend. I thought perhaps we could mend what had occurred, perhaps I could discover who he was. He seemed very lonely...

"Then I was cast as the silent role in the next opera. I hoped he wouldn't be upset, but our lessons ended abruptly. I didn't hear of him for weeks. And the night of the performance, he..." She swallowed. "He killed a man. A stagehand. With a noose. I thought he was going to kill me. I ran up to the roof for some air, and Raoul pursued me. He comforted me... and my heart betrayed my head.

"When I went back out onstage, having changed into a singing role to appease the ghost, everything was going quite well. Then there were the bows. When I came out, the chandelier fell towards the stage and landed in the orchestra pit.

"After that, he was quiet for six months. No one heard of him. I was secretly engaged to my friend at the time. We thought we were safe, or at least, he did... Then they held a masked ball for New Year's. He appeared there, dressed as the Red Death, if you know the story, and gave them his masterpiece, instructing them to perform it, or else more deaths might come.

"We set a trap for him, knowing that he would be watching his masterpiece performed. I didn't want to, but I feared he might kill again if I did not, so I performed in his opera, Don Juan Triumphant. Everything was going quite well, but he was not in his box. The ghost wanted a box reserved for him- box five. We had hoped he would watch from there, but... then a strange man came out instead of my usual partner. At this time, Don Juan was fully concealed by a black cloak. I realized it was Erik, but his voice held me in the scene, like a puppet. It was only when I felt his mask that I found my way back into reality.

"I drew back his hood, to reveal his identity and let him be caught, but they gestured for me to remain. Erik has a wild look in his eyes. He grabbed my hand and pushed a ring from his finger onto mine. He was so desperate. I've never seen eyes like his at that moment... So I took his ring, to keep him there a while longer, so they could capture him, but I also found I didn't want them to. I was going quite mad in that moment. In my madness, out of some shred of sanity, I tore off his mask again. The cry he issued, I... I never want to hear that cry again.

"He dragged me down beneath the earth, where he lived, if one could say he _lived_ in that abyss. He forced me to put on a wedding dress and veil... I wished in that moment, for some insane reason, to go with him, marry him, if only it would end the murders. I only wanted it all to end.

"He kept saying I would love him if he wasn't deformed. I insisted that his face didn't matter. He refused to listen to me, and I had known his true self so little that I feared he might do me harm if I confronted him too harshly. The whole ordeal had ripped him to pieces.

"Then Raoul came for me. He was behind the portcullis- there was a portcullis there, beneath the earth, almost like a castle. It was strange. Erik raised it with his hand, like magic."

"A trick," Khan offered. "Perhaps he used some sort of foot pedal, or invisible string. He is not a sorcerer."

"I know that now... But he let Raoul in, to my surprise. I knew something was wrong, but I was hardly myself. While we were speaking to each other, planning our escape, he wrapped a noose about Raoul's neck." She rubbed hers in memory. "The poor boy... Erik insisted to me that I was to marry him and spare Raoul's life, or gain my freedom at the cost of it.

"I was so infuriated by then, worn down by all of it, that I refused to agree to his terms. I knew I had to be careful to protect Raoul as I confronted Erik, but eventually I saw something in his eyes that gave me hope. Something sparked there. He sank into his chair- this throne-like chair he had. He was distraught. I could see it through his attempts to hide it. I knew he didn't want to do this to me, but he had gone so far. He refused to back down.

"And..." She swallowed, fidgeting again with her skirt. _He did not need to know every detail_. "And then he suddenly caved. He let Raoul down, let me go... and I heard nothing of him for months. I hoped he had gone away, possibly changed his ways. I didn't want the police to find him."

"When did you meet him next?" he inquired.

"When Raoul was abducted."

" _Raoul_ was abducted?"

"Yes. He went missing, and then Erik brought him back one night, and spoke to me... I thought he had kidnapped Raoul and come to take me away, but he hasn't. He brought Raoul to me, the man he despised above all else, because he loved me. I couldn't believe it until I saw it with my own eyes.

"After I had reunited with Raoul, I had a very tense discussion with his brother. Raoul is a Vicomte, you see, so I had come to the realization that we could never truly marry. So I went to see Erik again, ask him why he had done this for me. He explained that his devotion now was to my happiness. When I explained my situation, he offered to take me to another opera house, help me start over... How could I refuse? So I left with him a few days later. It was what was best for everyone... or so I thought."

"You could never have predicted this... but..." Khan tilted his head in curiosity. "Does the Vicomte's abduction have any relation to yours here, now?"

She shook her head. "I shouldn't think so. I have no evidence. It must be a strange coincidence is all."

"Strange indeed..."

"At least he is safe at home," she sighed in relief. "If anything happened to him because of me, I... I don't know what I'd do."

Khan nodded in understanding. His closed eyes were tight with thought.

"Will you tell me about Erik, then?" Christine asked. "I know hardly anything about him. I only have ideas."

"I believe he has a right to privacy, and should share those personal details with you in his own time. But after all you have endured, you have a right to know everything... so I can tell you of my experience with him."

She nodded in agreement and leaned forward with a hand under her chin. He inhaled wearily.

"I was told to fetch a young man from India, very gifted in certain arts," he began, folding his hands in his lap. "The sultana- our empress of sorts, in a way- was bored. There is not much amusement to be had as a member of the royal family, certainly not as she desired, so she sent me to fetch this man for entertainment.

"I knew within the first five minutes of meeting him that he had no reservations against killing me, if he so desired. He had no connections to anyone. He had been trained in his art, and that was all, nothing more. He had no morals, no understanding of humanity, only the art of keeping oneself alive at all costs.

"But he agreed to come. He was bored with India, it seemed, so he followed me to Persia. He must have been only twenty years old at the time, but with the attitude of one of sixteen, and the knowledge and weariness of one of sixty. The sultana enjoyed his arrogance, and so she set him to work with entertainments, from magic tricks to..." he shifted uneasily, "performances. I thought, as you did, that he truly had knowledge of the dark arts, or some form of sorcery. But it is all based on science, and mirrors. He had a fondness for mirrors, which I found curious, considering his face. He kept this hidden always, save from the sultana. I only caught glimpses.

"Then, a few months after he had been installed there, she discovered he was designing a piece of architecture- privately, of course. She demanded to see it.

"I will never forget his fury at that violation of privacy, turned sharply on its head when she gave him full permission to complete the structure. When he worked, I never saw him eat or drink. All he ever did was work, or play music, which he kept to himself. He tried to keep it from her, too, like the blueprints."

"What were they of?" Christine inquired. "The blueprints?"

"A room with six sides, all mirrors, and a great iron tree in the middle."

"What is the point of that?"

"It heats. Sounds issue from Erik's throat, of various African creatures. Once the victim is dehydrated enough, then they become delusional."

"Did he...?" she swallowed. "Did he enjoy this?"

"No. It was work. He worked so he could play music. It was all for his own personal pursuits. I was the only one who understood him at all, and I knew he would soon snap if not allowed the freedom to do as he pleased.

"In time, the Shah- our leader- discovered Erik's architectural prowess. He demanded a structure fortified against spies, lined with traps and secret rooms, so he could have utmost privacy, or lack of, in conversations and discussions. Erik was twenty-five, I believe, at that time, though I often forgot and thought him my age.

"He despised the work, and when it was complete, requested a month of rest. It was granted. I knew this was suspicious, and I soon discovered that the Shah wanted him dead. After all, if Erik could create such magnificent works, what would stop him from doing it for another great ruler?

"I warned him, and we fled. But I was caught, and I tumbled off a cliff- though Erik insists it was a camel. When I woke, I could not feel my legs. They tortured me, blinded me, and when I thought I might die, Erik rescued me.

"He told me if I did not bother him, he would send me sums of money to live in Brussels. I don't know why he wanted me there specifically, but I did not refuse his terms. They were exceptionally generous.

"He then traveled around Asia before returning to Europe. He stayed with me for three days, then I didn't see him for another ten years. It was about a year before now, actually. He was making preparations for something, but refused to say what. He was very happy... I assume he had fallen in love with you then, and was making preparations to take you away."

"That would make sense," Christine said. "I wondered where he would have taken me... But what was his art?"

"It is not for your ears," Khan advised.

"Does he despise it, then, as much as you seem to? Would he renounce it for me, do you think, and stay true to his promise?"

Khan's gaze, closed as it was, met hers with surety.

"Without a doubt."


	9. Chapter 9: The Servant

The sun was painting the walls red when Erik and Raoul arrived at apartment 1B. Both had their respective weapons at their sides.

"Is she here?" Raoul asked.

Erik's jaw tightened. "Be quiet... they may be waiting for us."

"Then why come in this way?"

Erik silenced him with a fiery glare. He then knocked on the door.

There was no reply. This was, at once, a relief and a disappointment. Still, he waited another minute, and tried again.

The bolt slid out, and the door creaked open. There stood the Persian girl in deep-blue silk. Her brown eyes, profound as a doe's, were staring at them without a hint of emotion. Then a great change overcame her, and she smiled wide, revealing surprisingly white teeth.

"Good afternoon, monsieur," she said sweetly. "My master is out. You wait? I make tea."

"I will not wait for him," Erik replied. "Tell me where he is."

She drained of color, but the door creaked open a bit more.

"He is out," she replied in a quiet voice. "But he will be back soon-"

"Where is he?" Erik demanded, taking hold of her arm. "Tell me. Quickly!"

"The-the market!" she stammered out. Her knees were knocking together through the blue silk of her skirt. "The market!"

"Take us there."

"Monsieur, no," she gasped.

"No? You have no right to deny me! I am your husband's master, and therefore yours. You shall take me wherever I please!"

"I do not go with no husband!" she pleaded. "It is not honest!"

He threw open the door. She squeaked with fright.

"Do I look like I give a damn for your Persian formalities?" he demanded, releasing her arm nonetheless. "Do I?"

She shook her head violently and backed up against the floral green wallpaper in the parlor. Erik followed, gesturing to the door with insistence. Her gold forehead knitted in thought as she glanced toward the kitchen instead. Quite suddenly, her features fell slack and her gaze cleared. She breathed heavily.

Erik turned his head to find the source of her change in demeanor. There, in the doorway, a dark figure stood, holding a pistol to the level of his eye.

 _"Darius?"_ Erik breathed.

"Send for them," he said to the girl in his native tongue.

She ran out the door. Darius shut it with one hand as Erik stared at him in disbelief.

"What are you doing?" he asked in Farsi.

"What is right," Darius replied coldly. "My master is a fool to let you come here, as a friend."

"Your master is a fool, I do not deny it, but what of your loyalty?"

"I am loyal to my faith. You are a murderer, a thief, a pitiful excuse for a man. You deserve whatever is coming to you."

"And what of the woman they have taken?" Erik growled, clenching his fist around the red rope nestled in his palm. "Is she a murderer? Why is she deserving of punishment, when she has done nothing wrong her whole life?"

"She is with you," Darius replied simply. "She has shown where her loyalties lie."

"And what of your master?" Erik insisted, his fury pulling tight, ready to snap. "Have you betrayed him, too?"

Darius swallowed. The pistol was growing heavy in his hand, Erik could tell. It only need lower slightly.

"Ah," Erik mocked. "They have taken him. You are not acting of your own volition. I doubt you became part of it just after I left... What have they promised you? That they will give him back once you turn me over? They are as treacherous as I. You know you cannot trust them."

"It is none of your concern what they have promised," Darius retorted, his jaw tightening. "Your life is in my hands."

"They will kill you once this is done, and the girl. Think of the girl you sent to fetch them!"

"That was her purpose. She is an assassin as skilled as the other men, but unseen due to her sex... She will not be harmed. They are more faithful to their word than you. You speak to my master with disrespect, when he was the one who saved your worthless hide! I am faithful to my master. This," he said, extending his pistol to draw attention to it, "is my loyalty."

With that proud statement, the same weapon sunk just low enough to be avoided, though the man did not realize it. In the space between two heartbeats, the rope had snaked around Darius' throat with precision. Eyes bulging, he lowered his pistol to point it at Raoul, and Erik shoved the boy back behind him.

"I don't want to kill you!" Erik cried, tightening the rope with a pained expression. "I know you to be a man of reason, a man who followed his master without question! And you would betray that?"

Darius cocked his pistol as he struggled with the red catgut. Erik hissed out a breath through his teeth.

"I beg you Darius, think-!"

 _Bang!_

Darius gave a cry of pain, clutching a darkening hole in his chest. He crumpled to the ground.

Behind him, still and sure, stood the Persian girl. She held a still-smoking pistol in her hands. As Darius struggled to raise his pistol for one last shot, she kicked it out of his hand without a trace of emotion and stepped over him.

There were men behind her, armed with pistols and knives in turn, and dressed in black.

"Come, messieurs," the girl said in perfect French, gesturing out the door with her pistol. "I shall take you to Mademoiselle Daaé... or hell, if you so please."

...

Christine sat on the floor with her cellmate. She was chewing a piece of candy to ease her gnawing hunger.

"What is Persia like?" she asked.

Khan leaned into his hands with a melancholy air, but a faint smile illuminated his features nonetheless.

"I am not as eloquent as Erik," he said, "but if you might forgive my poetry... The sky is gold, and the green there is brighter than any Parisian park. The palaces and gardens are magnificent. They appear to stretch on for miles, never ending in their beauty. Erik himself is responsible for many, even his own little home there. Some of Persia is a great expanse of desert, yes, but we shall be in Mazandaran, which is not too far from the coast."

He smiled in memory. "Erik and I went down there once together. He had never set foot on a beach before, only seen them in the distance. I still remember him, standing barefoot in the sand, like he had forgotten himself entirely, staring at the endless waves... It might have been the only time I ever saw him at peace. I hope you will be able to go there, too, if our trials permit. Erik will need it."

"He will," she said mournfully. "And what are the people like?"

"They are welcoming, I would say, above all. We value family and God above all else... but I fear you will see none of that. The sultana's courts are full of fear and deceit. We have had countless terrible rulers in our time, as most. People are, after all, evil if left to their own devices. The sultana, the woman after Erik, is the embodiment of that most basic evil. She takes pleasure only in the pain of those around her. Food does not delight her, nor music, drink, love, even her own children. As a ruler, she is formidable. She controls her son who sits on the throne as if she were in his seat. He would be kind and just, I know, if only she did not whisper in his ear. She corrupted him with such ease..."

"Will she hurt Erik?" Christine asked quietly, though she hardly wanted the answer.

Khan did not reply. He simply lowered his head slightly.

"Will she hurt me?" she added, her stomach churning.

"No," he insisted. "No, she will not."

"You sound so certain. How can you be?"

"Erik would not allow it. I have said so before."

"Erik has no power over this, though."

"He always has power. His desire is to control every aspect of his life, and he accomplishes that by any means necessary. The sultana knows she can barely control him, even if she bound him in chains and locked him in a cell deep below her palace. But she thinks she can control him with you. If I know Erik, he will find a way within a year to free you both."

She lowered her gaze, unmoved. "Are they bringing him there for a purpose, or simply to torture him?"

Again, he did not reply. His silence was more telling than words.

She rose in furious defiance. Her arms wrapped around her chest.

"I won't have it!" she declared in hushed fervor. "I won't! It's not right! Perhaps he deserves it, but then, he does not. No one deserves what he has endured. He is human, after all. Does he not have a right to live happily for just one single moment? It's not right!"

With that, she began pulling up her skirts. Khan leaned forward in his chair.

"Mademoiselle?" he asked in concern, his forehead wrinkling as he heard her skirts rustle. "Mademoiselle, what are you doing?"

Her hand found the knife's hilt. She withdrew it and began sawing through the rope close to her ankle.

"Mademoiselle!" he said in a hoarse whisper. "Stop! Don't! Whatever you're doing, stop!"

"I will not sit and wait for him so he can walk into a trap!"

"He may yet rescue us-"

"And if he does not?" she demanded, ceasing the cutting for a moment. "Are we all doomed to suffer under this sultana's hand?"

"They will find you out!" he pleaded, his features strained. "I beg you, Mademoiselle, listen! If they find the rope severed then-"

He silenced. Footsteps echoed down the hallway outside to the rhythm of Christine's fluttering heartbeat.

"Hide it," Khan said in a low voice. "They will punish you if they see that you've made an attempt."

She glanced down at her blade, then the frayed rope. Fool. She had only sawed through a single strand! It was certainly noticeable, though, so she hid it beneath her skirts. The knife was sheathed.

The door creaked open. A bearded Persian man appeared, then another, and another, all in black, illuminated by flickering candles in the hallway. She could not make out faces.

One of them went to cut her bonds. She gave a cry of pain and clutched her ankle, keeping the frayed bit of rope bunched up in her hand. The man paid her no mind, and the rope had soon fallen into a pile.

 _Thank God._

They lifted her up by her arms and dragged her out of the room, down a hall. She saw, at the end of it, a dark room lit only by a candelabra.

They pushed her inside. The room possessed a little table and chairs, and, curiously enough, on top of the table was the green dress she had packed away, as well as a white towel. As she glanced at the corner, she found a wooden bathtub filled halfway and a bar of yellow soap.

"Wash and dress," one man commanded.

They shut the door as they left. Two pairs of footsteps went away. One was keeping guard.

She began to peel away her dress and undergarments. What a blessing to breathe again! To feel clean! But for what purpose was this?

Layer after layer was shed until she laid eyes upon her own bare legs, nearly skin and bones from lack of food. Her stomach clenched and rolled over. She had been wasting away for months, yes, but now she looked ill. Oh, for something rich to eat! Strawberries with cream, potatoes, _salmon_ -

She shook her head to remove these thoughts and sank into the lukewarm water with a relieved sigh.

The doorknob turned. With a gasp, she wrapped her arms about herself and pushed all but her face under the water. Had they no shame?

To her surprise, though, the figure that appeared was the Persian girl. So she was a part of this, too?

The girl shut the door behind herself.

"I am here to wait with you," she said in perfect French, to Christine's surprise. "They do not want you to harm yourself."

She went over to Christine and knelt beside the tub. Her eyes were incredibly sure.

"They are coming," the girl said in a whisper. "Soon, with the trapdoor lover and the Vicomte."

"Vicomte?" Christine asked, her arms still wrapped about her chest. "He is here, too?"

"He should not have been with the other. He must be rid of... but a Vicomte is very well known, I hear, so perhaps that is unwise." The girl's eyes grew darker, losing their lovely gleam. "They have decided to let him live if you agree to a certain term."

Christine only had to exhale, and her answer came forth.

"Anything."

The girl rose in apparent triumph, but her features were tense. She brushed down her skirts as if maintaining a facade.

"Bathe and dress," she said, "then follow my instructions carefully, and the Vicomte shall live."

...

Erik's pulse was roaring as they dragged him into the cellar. The boy was following behind, numb and silent.

"Where is Christine?" Erik hissed, clenching his fist in desperation, as if that might create a new knot of red rope in his palm.

They did not reply. They fastened him in chains from head to foot, then drew a black bag over his head. He struggled against the bonds.

 _Not again, not again, please, God-_

"What do we plan to do with the other?" one of the men asked another in Farsi, paying no mind to Erik. "He is well known here, some sort of lord. Perhaps killing him would be a mistake- certainly taking him to Persia would be an even greater one."

"We will bring him with us to the ocean, then kill him there. Make it look like a suicide. Young men are often drowning or stringing themselves up."

Erik's stomach churned. The boy could not understand them, but he had come to die, had he not? That was his only purpose here.

The men left. Erik gave a cry of rage and threw the back of his head against the wall. The Vicomte's chains clinked- evidently he had been startled by the noise.

"What do we do now?" the boy asked in a feeble voice.

"They are going to kill you once we reach the ocean," Erik replied coldly. "Now I have to convince them to let you go."

"But what... what happened to the plan-?"

"Damn you, boy!" Erik roared. "These are trained men, in far greater numbers than I expected, and with an unassuming woman in their ranks. I believed it an impossibility. Women of their culture are not assassins anymore than ours are! Had I suspected-" He shook his head in dismay.

"The plan, though?"

"Our plan was to die in a way that released Christine," Erik hissed. "All that is gone now! You will be dead in a week, and Christine will be a slave to a woman of unimaginable cruelty!"

"But there has to be a way to free her, still!" Raoul pleaded. "Are you not a genius? Surely you can-"

"If you do not silence yourself, I shall kill you before they get the chance," Erik growled. "It is over! I am in chains, and so are you! Do you have an idea, Monsieur le Vicomte, besides holding a hand to the level of your eye? Or sacrificing yourself? Your death is worthless now! You would die anyway."

Erik breathed heavily in the following silence. He bowed his head into his shackled hands, features tensing in rage. In the corner, the Vicomte began to cry quietly, murmuring Christine's name at intervals. It made Erik's blood boil.

"Do not think for one moment that I would let them hurt her," he said in a low voice. "I shall free her eventually... but you shall remain here, alive, if I can help it... She loves you."

Raoul's lip spasmed. He retorted bitterly, "She doesn't love me. She left me for a murderer... What does that say?"

"I could take her where she wanted to go, that was all."

"You actually believe that?" Raoul scoffed. "Since we are chained here, I may as well inform you, though a _genius_ such as yourself should already know..." He bit down hard on his lower lip. "She loves you."

Erik would have laughed at the boy's stupidity, but due to the circumstances, he kept quiet.

"You're a genius," Raoul continued. "Architect, musician, scholar- I heard all of it from Madame Giry. You were cast out, though, put in a cage, she said, like an animal... Christine has a fascination with broken things. She cannot leave them be. She used to collect insects without legs or wings and care for them until they died. I saw her do it, saw her mourn the most insignificant things on this earth... She isn't a child anymore, but she still holds the same sentiments. She sees something in you that isn't there, and I cannot make her realize it. You do not deserve anything from her, least of all her love."

Erik leaned against the wall in reflection. The heavy chains were already cutting into his wrists.

"Do _you_ deserve anything from her?" he countered quietly.

"No," Raoul declared. "She has the right to do as she pleases."

"And if she pleases to go with me, then is that not her right?"

"It is not someone's right to commit suicide," Raoul offered.

"You think I would hurt her?" Erik snarled. "You think I would _ever_ hurt her-?"

"How dare you say that!" Raoul cried, fighting against his chains in sudden rage. "You hurt her a thousand times over! You drove her mad!"

"I love her more than you can comprehend! Why don't I tear off half your face and shut you in a cage for ten years, see what you do at the end of that, when presented with someone to love! I _wonder_... I do not have to answer to you, Vicomte. Do not test me now. I hold your life in my hands just as much now as before."

Raoul bowed his head, breathing heavily, his chest hot with rage.

"I wish I had killed you," he said a low voice, "in the maze. Then Christine wouldn't be tangled up in all this."

"Ah, Vicomte," Erik sighed bitterly, "I wish you had better aim as well..."

The door at the top of the stairs opened, casting down a bit of light into the gloom. Three footsteps echoed down, each frail board creaking under their weight.

"Good evening, monsieur," came the voice of the Persian girl. It had been greatly subdued from earlier. "I have good news for your companion. He is to be freed once we reach the ocean."

"He is to be murdered," Erik growled, lifting his head against the cloth shrouding his gaze. "Do not feed me euphemisms, girl."

"My knowledge of French is not that broad, Monsieur," she responded coldly. "Please keep your words within a basic vocabulary... But no, he will be freed in all ways. The sultana has no need for him, and killing a Vicomte is much too noticeable. But furthermore, Mademoiselle Daaé has agreed to our terms."

"What terms?"

Two men grabbed his arms. He did not resist, though it pained him.

"You can ask her yourself," the girl said. "She is preparing for the journey. Come."

They pulled him up the stairs. He stumbled into a bit of candlelight, barely visible through the black cloth over his head. They brought him down a hallway, into a room, and shoved him inside.

The cloth was removed. Christine was sitting on a little mattress in the corner, a blindfold wrapped tightly over her blue eyes. She turned to the door, her lips parting.

"Christine," Erik breathed.

Her features lit and she rose from the bed, reaching out for him, as if he might slip through her fingers.

The guards permitted him, in his chains, to meet her embrace, however poorly. Christine felt his mask for a moment, stroking it with her fingertips as her eyes burned. She choked on a sob and fell into his shoulder. Her hands dug into him for comfort, but he found no warmth in them as her tears bled into the fabric of his jacket.

"Forgive me," she pleaded. "Please forgive me-"

"None of that," he insisted. "Are you well? Why are you wearing this?"

He gestured to the blindfold. She buried her head more firmly in his chest, overwhelmed by her need for the warmth of touch, whoever's it was.

"I cannot say," she replied mournfully. "Do not ask about it, I beg you."

Erik turned to glance back at the men in the doorway, and the girl, who appeared so slight next to them. Her formidable strength was only visible in her brown eyes.

"We must be going," she said. "Come."

The black cloth was again shoved over Erik's head.


	10. Chapter 10: The Ship

Two stagecoaches trickled north to the sea. Erik sat across from Christine, who was still blindfolded with her hands bound in her lap. The girl was beside her, and two men on either side of him, clutching a knife despite the chains binding their captive.

The sky filled with ink, but no stars peered out from the depths. A sliver of moon glowed pale through the window.

They traveled all night without a single stop, and then well on into the pink morning. It was then that the coaches stopped. The guards began speaking to one another in Farsi before exiting the coach.

"Erik?" Christine whispered. "What is it?"

He replied without hardly moving his lips. "They are freeing the boy."

"Oh, thank God! Can you see him? Is he well?"

He leaned over to peer out the window. His lip curled.

"He is well."

Her forehead knitted. "Are you... certain he is? Entirely well?"

"They have removed his bonds and are giving him a bit of the Mazandaran scent."

"What is that?"

"A type of chloroform, one I would consider far superior to its European counterparts."

She nodded, though her chin was trembling. "Do you promise?"

"You believe I am lying."

"I believe you are kind to me."

A tear ran down from underneath her blindfold. She fell silent and began fidgeting with the green fabric of her skirt.

Erik's chains rustled as he moved away from the window, his stomach writhing.

"I do not wish to cause you pain," he offered.

"I would be in more pain over a lie," she replied firmly in spite of her restless and trembling fingertips. "Would you swear it, on my life, that you are telling the truth?"

"I swear it. He has been freed, and is alive."

Her hands relaxed and settled on her knee, crossed from the rope binding her wrists.

He bit down hard on his lip at the sight outside the window, of the boy in a heap on the grass. They had left him to die, that was certain, but for now the boy was alive, and had been freed. He had tried to save Christine, and failed, so did it matter what happened to him now? He had served his purpose, however fruitless. He had offered his life.

The guards entered and slammed the door shut. Once seated, the coaches started off again.

...

After another few hours, they stopped with a sense of finality. The door opened and Christine felt herself being taken out of the coach, then guided onto wooden planks. Erik's chains clinked behind her.

The planks began to slope, and soon the floor rocked beneath her. By the salty breeze, she realized they were on a boat. She was taken beneath, down a winding staircase, step by step, until they placed her inside a room of some sort and, after cutting the bonds around her hands, left her quite alone.

The clanking of Erik's chains soon followed. They dragged across the wood floor, all the way into her cell, as she assumed that was where she was. He was soon bound across from her. The door grated shut.

"Christine?" he said, finding her in the cell adjacent, through the bars, clutching her knees to her chest.

"I was so worried I would be alone," she replied. "Where are we?"

"Beneath a ship, in two barred cells."

She stood up and reached out her arms. Her hands found the bars separating them, and she wove her arms through them, stretching as far out as she could.

"Can you reach me?" she asked, though it came out as pleading.

He shuffled across the floor. His chains groaned, then ceased, falling onto the ground in a heap.

"No," he said faintly. "I cannot."

Her arms fell back to her sides. A shadow passed over her features.

"So the tortures have begun," she murmured, sinking into the floor.

"No. Not for you. It is my pain they want, and they won't hurt you as long as I'm alive."

"Monsieur Khan said all that, too, when we were cellmates, but how can you both be so certain? And what if you are forced to do something you do not want, for my sake? Be killed, tortured, or..." She inhaled shakily. "I would much rather have myself punished than you. I feel, as a woman, and someone who has not offended them, they may be kinder-"

"The sultana does not care who you are. Often, when she ran out of prisoners to execute, she offered up her own maidservants."

Her lips parted in horror. "Surely... surely not? Her own women?"

His silence solidified his answer.

"But how could she? And why?"

"Boredom," he said with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Wealth, power, _time_... Nothing amused her so much as toying with lives."

"And she made you... like her."

"I am _nothing_ like her," he growled. "If I am a demon, she is the devil. To live, I had to indulge her. I tried for years to free myself, but I knew I would never succeed. Even now she pulls me back, like a cat with toy. I want nothing more to do with death, not now."

He gritted his teeth in silence.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to open old wounds-"

"You have every right to. Tear me to pieces at your leisure."

"Why would I do such a thing, when you have endured enough already?"

"I expect, then," he sighed, "that Khan told you about me?"

"He told me about what he had known of you firsthand... he left the rest to you."

"And you wish to hear it?"

She folded her lips. His chains clinked as he adjusted to lean against the wall.

"You are too curious for your own good," he said, "though it makes you an excellent student."

"I only feel I know nothing of you."

"Well, we shall know each other very well by the time we reach Mazandaran."

"That is my one consolation..." She massaged her wrists where they had been rubbed raw. "Do you think we shall ever be free?"

"You shall. I swear it."

"But _we,_ Erik."

He fidgeted with a link in his chains. "If possible."

"Well, if we do..." She twisted a brown curl round her finger for a moment. "I've had a lot of time to think, you see."

"Think?"

"About what I would do if I were free." She exhaled and rubbed her knees through her dress. "After all, life is so very short. This whole affair with Raoul's abduction, and my kidnapping, and us going to Persia, possibly to..." She faltered. "Well, if we escape it, I'm not going back to Paris, or any city. I'm going home... Where will you go?"

He fell silent. She rubbed her fingertips along the palm of her hand.

"Where _would_ you go?" she corrected.

"I have nowhere to go, even if I were free."

She swallowed. "You could come with me, then."

"If I came with you, I would not be free."

Her head bowed. He shook the chain on his wrist for a moment in irritation.

"Would you do something for me?" she asked, her head tilting.

"Anything," came his soft reply.

"Would you sing?"

"Sing?"

She nodded. "When you sang before, you took me somewhere else. Like heaven."

"You wish for a bit of heaven from a man who knows only hell?"

"Those who are in hell know heaven better than anyone." She crept closer to the bars until her hands entwined around them, entreating him. "Please."

"I could never deny you."

She rested her head against the bars. He shut his eyes, letting himself be surrounded by the darkness, and took in a deep breath of salty air.

A bit of heaven for Christine...

 _"Elle ne croyait pas, dans sa candeur naïve,_  
 _Que l'amour innocent qui dormait dans son Coeur,"_

His voice wrapped around her, drawing her forth. Her chin lifted, as if gazing at something just beyond, despite the blindfold and the black air surrounding them. She brought her forehead to the bars, resting it there as her spirit swelled within her. A faint smile lit her features.

How soon he had forgotten the effect his music had on her, that he could draw her from this place, give her light in the dark. He had done so before, behind her mirror, but here, down in this black cell, he could give her life. Vibrant life.

The melody swayed like the waves beneath the ship, caught like the sail in the breeze, pulling her forward. His voice always brought her towards something, unseen but irresistible. She was floating, certainly, higher and higher, though her knees remained firmly rooted to the floor.

 _"Ô printemps, donne-lui ta goutte de rosée."_  
 _Ô mon coeur, donne-lui ton rayon de soleil."_

The last note faded. He exhaled softly and, quite suddenly, realized that warmth had flooded his chest with such fever that he could barely breathe.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I had almost forgotten, so much time has passed..."

"Forgotten?"

"Your voice. I forget that I was not so stupid when I thought you an angel." She leaned back against the wall. "I've missed music more than anything. All I've had of it is at those dreadful parties Raoul took me to- ladies who had learned piano like a subject, and only as a way to find a man. I could hear it in the way they played, that cold precision, and longing... I wish I could have given them some true music. Some had good technique."

"Did you not sing, then?"

Her head lowered. "They would have mocked me."

"Mocked you? Are you not the songbird of Paris?"

"Exactly," she replied, lowering her head. "They see me as an opera diva looking to seduce a vicomte. That's what every other member of the opera tries for, after all, and for many, I do not blame them. It doesn't matter my actions or words, or his... I couldn't sing, not when he was walking such a tightrope as it was. It would have solidified all their beliefs about me."

They fell silent for a moment. Erik was too depleted to be enraged. Instead, he felt as if his insides had been hollowed out. More than ever, he wanted to reach out and grab hold of some small part of her, just the hem of her skirt, perhaps. It would give him some hold on the world.

"You can sing now," he said. "No one will mock you here."

"I know... I haven't sung in some time, though, so forgive me if I falter a little."

"Sing something simple, then. Perhaps something of your homeland?"

"But you would not understand it."

"The way you sing, I do not have to understand it. You express the meaning far better than words could ever manage."

She smiled faintly. He leaned forward, against the will of his bonds. Her arms relaxed about her knees as she lifted her head, lips parting gently.

Her voice came forth in a feeble note. She swallowed, took a deep inhale, and continued, voice rising as her confidence grew.

 _"Hvi längtar du åter till fädernes strand,_  
 _Mitt hjärta,_  
 _du slår så oroligt,"_

Again, it felt as if a match had been struck in his chest, warm and fervent. He dared not draw breath. The gloom around them turned into light like the very edge of a sunrise. The rocking of the ship became a gentle swaying. His mind was swept clean of coming torments, and he realized, even as the thought ate through his heart, that he was saved by her company.

 _"Men fädernetjället, det blomstrar ju än,  
Och moder och vänner mig mana igen  
Till hembygdens skogar och dalar."_

Her song flickered and extinguished, as if it pained her to continue. He opened his eyes.

"I never thought I would hear you sing again," he said.

"Nor I you." She smiled faintly, then reached up to graze the seam of her blindfold as a shadow passed over her features. "If music were taken from me, I fear I should die."

"Do not fear it. The music is in your soul, Christine. Even when you die, it shall follow you to heaven."

"The music is in your soul, too."

"And it shall be my one respite in hell."

"Oh, speak no more of hell, I-"

Footsteps echoed to their right. Christine wrapped her arms about her knees as two guards came down from above decks. They opened her door first and gave her a bowl of rich-smelling broth and a piece of flat bread. Then they went to Erik.

"Give her mine," he commanded in Farsi.

"The sultana does not want you weak when you arrive," one man replied. "Eat your share."

They placed the bowl at his feet and shut the door, then went back up.

Christine felt along the ground for a spoon. Upon realizing there was not one, she tilted the bowl to her lips.

"Why do they still make you wear that?" Erik asked.

She set the bowl down in her lap. "I told you not to ask-"

"And you think I would respect that, when it concerns your wellbeing...? What have they done?"

"I cannot say."

"Because they forbade you?"

"Because I do not wish to say. It is my body, my life, and I have the sole right to it... I do not wish to cause you premature pain."

"Lord, Christine, I am in pain already! Tell me!"

"I shall not say! I did it to spare Raoul, who would be dead without my promise!" She shook her head in dismay. "Why was he even with you at all?"

"He begged to come."

"How is that so?" Her forehead knitted above the black cloth. "He found you?"

"I went to him. I thought he might know where you were."

"And what more?"

"I suspected that he had been kidnapped by accident, when they were after you. His capture was indeed no coincidence."

She shook her head, biting down on her lip. "But why would they want him? Oh, if I had only gone with him!"

"Then they would have murdered him. He would have put up a struggle."

"But why did you let him come? You despise him."

"He wanted to save you. I thought he could prove useful, when all he did was make things worse for you. Damn that boy!"

"How can you say that? Half the deal I made was for you!"

Erik faltered. His mouth filled with sand.

"Why would you do that?" he breathed.

"Because you are my friend. Are you not?"

"But what did you promise? You speak of your body and life-" He stopped. His heart was pounding. Deafening.

"What is it?"

"You must answer me now," he demanded, his knuckles white, "or I shall go mad."

"What has your mind concocted now?"

"Have they violated you?"

"Oh, that is why you are so pale! No, and they shall not, or else they will be mutilated. The girl told me... I am glad I can at least console you in something. But I am hungry, please let me eat in peace for a time."

"Take my bread," he offered, preparing to throw it through the bars.

"No, no, don't-"

"I insist."

She heard it land beside her and felt along the floor for it.

"I would give it back," she sighed, "if only I could see... Please don't give me any more."

"I am not giving it. I am paying back my debt to you."

She bowed her head. "Thank you, then. It's very kind of you." Her head lifted in sudden realization. "But I have something for you as well."

She pulled up her skirts and began to roll down her stocking. Erik averted his eyes.

 _"Christine?"_

"They did not expect a little woman such as myself to be carrying it," she replied as she unfastened the leather trap from her thigh.

He lifted his eyes back up to meet her shrouded gaze as she approached the bars. She felt along them to find the center gap, then slid the sheath through it, across the wood planks. It hit his knee.

"Is it worth anything?" she asked.

"At the right moment, I should hope so... You are brave to have kept it."

"I am a fool to have not gotten rid of it sooner. If they had found it-"

"You are the bravest of women, Christine, and no fool."

He stowed the blade.

...

The next morning, she was gone. A great, gnawing pain rose up in his chest.

They were tormenting him with her presence.

To his great relief, however, she was again deposited in the cell across from him. Her head hung low, though, and for some time she made no conversation. It was only when they were brought lunch, when she asked him what it was, that he answered, along with the location of each on her plate so she could find them more easily.

She asked him to sing with her for a time. She taught him a Swedish song, and he encouraged her voice up to its prior standing. Her silver throat had barely tarnished in its lack of use.

This became routine. In the morning, she would be gone, then returned before lunch, meek and reserved. He brought the glow back in her cheeks with music, and she became herself again. Sometimes, when her color was particularly drained, he would even offer up a piece of his past. For some reason unknown to him, it comforted her.

Many nights, when she thought him asleep, she cried quietly to herself. Unable to think of anything else, he began to hum, as if oblivious, a tune- one she would recognize. She would inhale shakily, then relax into sleep.

Never had his voice been more valuable to him than now. It gave Christine hope. He could even make her laugh by throwing it about, a trick that he had forgotten was meant for amusement and not terror.

He marked the days into the wood floor with whatever utensil he was given to eat with, or his own fingernails. Soon they numbered seventeen. Christine was fast asleep on a bamboo mat the next morning when he etched in the eighteenth. They had not taken her away that morning. Curious.

It was then that a great commotion rose up above decks, and she sat bolt upright, her color draining.

"What's happening?" she asked.

"We must be docking."

She nodded, though he saw her swallowing as if a stone were lodged in her throat.

"I demand you tell me now," he said, "what they have done to you."

"I fear you shall find out soon enough," came her soft reply.

Two men came down and entered Erik's cell, then shoved the black cloth over his face. Christine whimpered at their roughness. He heard her plainly.

They dragged him out of the cell, up into the daylight. He recognized that burning daylight.

The men shoved him into a coach of some sort. This time the cloth was not removed, and Christine did not sit beside him.

He was alone. It was like before. He had tried to push away the memories, but they burrowed in his eyes and ears like sand, coming forth with a bite when disturbed.

The rolling of wheels on gravel made way for tiresome thoughts. Mostly his mind wandered to Christine. The sultana had plans of some sort for her, but he assumed she was only a tool and would not be harmed if he cooperated. His mind wandered regardless, to her writhing in pain and crying out as he stood hopeless against some glass wall, and the sultana shrieked with laughter.

Once he freed Christine, he would murder that horrible woman. Whatever could she want so desperately to go to all this effort? Was his death worth so much? His agony?

After a few days, the wheels stopped. He was pulled out, back into the fiery daylight, then dragged along marble and mosaic, into cooler air. He recognized these halls even as he stumbled upon them, blind, his chains grating across the polished floor.

The men threw him down without warning, onto his knees. His lip rose in a snarl.

"Remove that," came a clear, cold voice that knotted his stomach.

The cloth was taken off his head. He looked up to find the sultana seated on her favorite divan, her chosen maidservants- five in number- kneeling and standing around her. Her figure was relaxed, but her gaze was hard and clear as crystal. The silk she wore was of deepest red. She had aged considerably, as was visible in her graying hair and the deepening creases around her mouth and eyes.

"The mask... too," she added, the corner of her lip creeping up.

Her maidservants lowered their gaze as this request was met. The men tore it from Erik's features, stripping him bare beneath her roaming gaze. He glared up at her rather than give her satisfaction.

"Welcome back, my pet," she said, smiling down at him. "How long has it been since you left me? Do you even know?"

He remained silent.

She clucked her tongue. "No answer? No sharp reply?"

His distorted lips grew white and thin. She sighed in distaste.

"What did I ever do to deserve your betrayal?"

He stared up at her with greater intensity, trying to burn through her gaze.

"Speak," she commanded. "Or perhaps it would be best to simply kill you and put you out of your misery-"

"Is that not your intention?" he growled.

She emitted a shrill little laugh. "Oh, your voice is just as I remember it! Soft as a bird and violent as a demon! But yes, I did want to kill you. I wanted it desperately. And it would be done over the course of a month or two, depending on how long you lasted, using your own favorite tricks... but then I realized that no one can humor me as you do. I have searched in vain for over a decade, seeking out a suitable replacement."

"Then why did you try to have me killed when I was in your service?"

She waved her hand with nonchalance. "Oh, that was my son. He was so easily decided, and he feared you, which I do not. But he is dead now, and his brother sits on the throne. He is far more indulgent... But surely you knew I would have prevented your death?"

"You hunted me down like a dog, let them torture my companion to find my whereabouts, then made him blind and lame-!"

"Do not speak to me in that manner!" she snapped. "As if you give a damn what happened to him. He was my subject, and dealt with according to his crimes. Disloyalty is intolerable in this court. But I am merciful to those who win my favor. You betrayed my trust and fled my side, even though you had sworn yourself to the Shah and I alone... But I am merciful. I offer you a deal."

His lip curled in a sneer. "Nothing could ever make me stay here."

"Oh, we both know that isn't true. I have decided, in my mercy, to allow you to regain my trust and be reinstated as my magician and entertainment. To keep you here, fully willing, and grateful, I have prepared a gift for you. You only have to earn it."

Earn my own slavery, sultana?"

She sighed in discontent. "Oh, I know you well, my pet. You would kill yourself rather than spend a single day in a cage... unless between the bars lay the one thing you desire above all else."

He averted his gaze. His stomach writhed as she smiled cruelly, revealing white teeth.

"A wife," she said, her voice clear and remarkably soft. "I have known your general whereabouts for some time, but found no way to bring you here. You had no weaknesses. But then I found, almost by accident, these peculiar articles about an opera house, and a certain diva there. After all, I have people all over Europe. Well, a few odd calamities, a few deaths, and it all pointed to you. I recognize your signature and style... So I made a few arrangements, plans, and with my faithful maidservant's talents, everything fell into place. The woman we took is not just any, either. You would not accept such. She has a voice, I hear, that is clear as crystal. Her beauty is not remarkable, which disappointed me, but certainly acceptable. We have made certain this woman, your bride, is prepared for you and shall give you a semblance of love. She is waiting in your chambers, should you accept my terms."

"And if I refuse?"

"Without even knowing the terms?" She laughed, shaking her head. "Well, if you refuse, I shall have her dragged in here, before you, and her throat shall be slit. Then you shall be brought into my court, day after day, until you snap in two like a dry branch... I assume you shall not take that."

He swallowed. She tapped her nails on the gold edge of the divan.

 _"Well?"_

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

"What are the terms?" he managed out, his gaze lowering.

She waved a hand towards the great cedar doors at the end of the hall. The guards on either side, with pistols in their decorative belts, opened the doors to reveal a man in chains, his clothes ripped and faded brown. Erik's heart beat madly against his ribcage.

They dragged the man forth until he was in front of Erik, his green eyes pleading and filled with tears. They reminded him of the daroga's jade gaze. All of him was bruised. He could hardly lift himself to his knees.

"You were my magician, yes," the sultana said, her voice filling the room as her black eyes gleamed. "But also my assassin and entertainer. I need to know you can still prove loyal, that you have not grown soft in your absence."

The guards removed Erik's chains. They tumbled to the ground in a heap as the prisoner clamped his eyes shut.

"Show me you have not lost your skill," the sultana continued. "And once it is completed, all shall be forgiven."

Erik met the gaze of the girl closest to the sultana's side. He had not realized it at first, but she was the same who had, without hesitation, shot a bullet through the daroga's servant. She appeared to be drifting, though, side to side, as if in a slight breeze. Her brown eyes were murky.

The guard threw him a red lasso, weighted on one end, this one freshly dyed and stiff from lack of use. The sultana was already beaming.

"Go on," she said. "Entertain me."

He swallowed. The rope burned his hands. The man before him was shaking in terror.

Was he still such a menacing figure? Dirty and bruised, the marks from his chains still fresh and bleeding?

"What was his crime?" Erik growled.

"Does that matter?" the sultana replied leisurely.

"I should like to know."

"Do not delay or I shall remove my offer from the table," she replied sharply.

"No, I shall not," he said through clenched teeth, rising to his feet. His knuckles were white around the crimson lasso. "I am your servant, sultana... but shouldn't the ladies leave?"

"You are a proper gentleman now, I see. If they did not faint at your disgusting excuse for a face, then I am sure they can bear this. Now do it! You exhaust me."

"I am only trying to build your excitement, sultana," he offered dryly, wetting his lips. "You love to be teased, do you not? Do you want it over so quickly?"

She clapped her hands in delight, though her eyes were still dark in distrust. Erik wrapped the lasso around his fist, testing its strength and bend. He would have to satisfy her with fear, but not pain. He had to be swift. Merciful. After all, the man had already been tortured. It was a mercy. It had to be a mercy.

"On your feet," he growled to the man.

 _Forgive me, Christine_.


	11. Chapter 11: The Truth

The sultana's laughter rang in Erik's ears as he scraped himself clean. The bathwater was fresh and clear, but he could feel the blood on his hands, red as his flaming skin. His stomach writhed.

 _Monster._

His trade was in death. He chose it, as a mere boy, not knowing it was simply another cage. Who would have chosen differently? To take control of one's fate instead of letting it beat him into the dirt?

Christine thought him changed. He had sworn to become an honest man, and now the blood was dripping from him once again. How could he look her in the eyes and lie? And then remain silent as the sultana performed her little marriage ceremony, like a girl with her dolls?

He rubbed his skin till it cracked. The water reeked of rich perfumes. Was Christine bathing now as well? Being forced into Persian clothing?

His own clothes were lying across a chair. They were black and red, and atop them lay an ebony half-mask with gold etchings. He had not missed it.

They told him that, once he had made himself presentable, he would be shown to his bride's apartment. Bile rose in his throat at the very thought, the thought that would not long ago have made him weep in delight.

 _She has been prepared for you,_ they told him.

What did it mean? Prepared? It filled the pit of his stomach with bristling dread.

He had delayed too long. He had to go to her and promise to protect her, swear that she would be free and not bound to him.

He dressed and donned the mask they had given him, then went out to the guards. No less than six led him down the alabaster halls, up stairs lined in mosaic, down rugs of bright oranges, reds, and blues, until they reached a door at the end of one wing, near an open window. A guard withdrew a key and with it, opened up a bright chamber.

Christine was sitting at a varnished table, dressed in coral silk and covered with flowers- a proper Persian bride. Her features were veiled through a translucent sheet of cherry-red.

"Leave me a moment," Erik said to the guards. "I must speak with her."

They turned and shut the door. Erik's stiff demeanor crumbled as he exhaled.

"Have they treated you well?" he asked.

"Yes. I must have been bathed three times since I saw you last… How have they treated you?"

"Like a tiger on a leash."

She had not lifted her veil. Was she hiding from him?

"Do you understand what is happening?" he asked.

"Yes, but…" She exhaled shakily, beginning to tap her knee as a nervous tick. "I asked them for a Bible, for the ceremony, but they said that would be impossible. How can I be married under their religion?"

"You are not being married, not properly, so it matters little. Isn't it better that you wouldn't respect the union?"

"But I've promised myself to you, in earnest. That's why they did this to me," she gestured to her veiled features. "I'm... surprised you're not in more of a state over it, but you must be exhausted-"

"I don't understand you. Why should I be upset? You seem well, are being given proper care at last, and being put where I can ensure your safety. But you won't be my wife in anything more than title. I shall not hold you to anything. When we return to France, or Sweden, wherever we go, you shall be entirely free of it."

She was silent. He noticed her forehead knit together behind the fabric of her veil. Her gaze was unfixed, almost glassy through the red sheet.

"Is something the matter?" he asked. "You seem to be looking just beyond me, not at me."

"They didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what? Might I see your face?"

"Sit down first," she said in a trembling voice. "And take a deep breath as you do."

He bent over the table instead, placing his hands flat on the varnished wood. His heart raged in his chest.

"Tell it to me standing," he demanded. "I refuse to take any more blows lying down."

"I thought they would have told you," she insisted, tears filling the spaces between words. "How cruel of them to not, and leave me with it-"

"With what?"

She swallowed. "You know I only have four people in this world whom I love, and who love me. I was going to lose two if I didn't agree. You must understand-"

"Oh, Christine, by delaying my agony you only drive the knife deeper! Put me out of my misery!"

A sniffle issued from behind her veil. Her eyes were glistening, still unfocused, almost as if... almost...

His mouth filled with sand as he reached out to take hold of the translucent fabric, raising it up above her eyes. His sharp inhale broke the silence. The blue that had before been so clear was now opaque, and pale as the winter sky. The irises were like marbles.

"I gave them my sight," she told him, tears etching her cheeks. "What is color and light for me if you and Raoul are gone?"

He sank into the chair across from her, shaking his head, mouth open but empty.

"They think," she offered, "if I cannot see you, I'm more inclined to love you-"

"That's a lie, all a lie."

"They didn't hurt me, though. Not a bit. They were so careful. I was drugged, and even then, it didn't hurt afterwards. They treated me every morning on the ship, though I don't know in what way, but I swear they didn't hurt me."

"Does it matter?" he retorted hoarsely, extending his hands across the table, empty and shaking. "Your sight, Christine, your... your independence."

"It is worth nothing to me without those I love. Raoul is alive, and so are you. I can learn to live well enough like this. Plenty of people do. I-I can. I-"

She faltered as he let his head fall into his outstretched hands. His rage had burned up its wick, and the wax melted over his heart, scalding and bringing tears to his eyes. There was nothing left in him to scream or thrash about in agony.

He threw off his mask and wept openly. There was no time to hide himself away, and no right of him to keep anything from her now. The tears tore through his throat, clawing and burning.

Christine sat across from him still as stone for a moment, not knowing if her touch would console him or only turn his tears to rage. Her heart, however, lunged in her chest, then up into her throat, bringing tears to her eyes as well. Her legs bid her stand, and she felt around the table until she found Erik's shoulder. He inhaled sharply at her touch.

"I'm here," she whispered, rubbing gently. His muscles were taut. "I may not be able to see you, but I can feel you, and I am here."

"You shouldn't be here," he managed out, pushing away her hand with his shoulder. "You shouldn't be here."

"But I am. It was out of your control."

"It was not," he pleaded, as though the words cut into his tongue. "I should have left you with the boy."

"I wasn't happy there."

"And you're happy here?" he demanded, spinning around in his seat to face her. "Happy like this?"

"No. But it's not your fault. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. I chose to go with you, chose to run away instead of stand with you-"

"Don't you dare call yourself a coward!" he cried, reaching to cup her face in his hands. "Why should you stand with me? I have done nothing to deserve you. Do you understand how brave you are in the face of all this? You have given more than anyone ever should-"

"And so have you-"

"-and even now you stare it in the face, without fear or trembling. Even when you cannot see! How many times you've said you're afraid of the dark, afraid of not knowing what lies before you or behind-"

"That fear has been replaced by my fear for you."

"I can take care of myself."

"But I'm here, too. Don't forget that. You aren't alone, not now… and, therefore, neither am I."

He shook his head, shutting his eyes. "If only you knew… Christine-"

The door opened. His hands fell from her cheek, and she reached out for him as he rose. He slipped the mask back over his face, still glistening with tears.

"It's time for the ceremony," the guard said in Farsi, nodding his head.

"Help guide me," Christine whispered as she took Erik's hands. Her lips trembled before she added, "I trust you."

She gave his palm a gentle squeeze. They followed the guards out the door, into halls strewn with blazing sunlight.

...

Christine plucked the flowers from her hair as she stumbled back into the apartment. Erik had an arm wrapped around her waist to steady her.

He would have told her not to eat or drink anything presented to her that night, but she deserved to have such fine foods, to have her cup filled with rich Persian wine. The sultana had bid them goodnight with a slight tilt of her head. Oh, if his lasso had been on hand, her neck would have snapped in an instant, regardless of his promises and oaths, regardless of consequence! Damn her!

Christine leaned her head against his arm as he guided her to a tasseled pouf in the sitting room. She steadied herself, blinking slowly and turning towards the window.

"What time's it?" she yawned, rubbing her temple.

"Time for you to be in bed," he replied. "I'm going to see what they set out for you."

"Don't leave," she pleaded as she rose on shaky legs. "Take me with you- _oh!"_

He caught her as her knees buckled. Forgetting propriety, he scooped her up, letting her legs dangle over his arm as he supported her head against his shoulder. She gave no sign of dissent, so he brought into the bedroom and helped her into the center of crimson sheets and tasseled pillows. She reached down to undo the fastenings of her skirts.

At the edge of the bed was a man's nightshirt and, next to it, a near-translucent nightgown embroidered with red poppies. He picked up the nightshirt.

"Here's a chemise," he said, wrapping her hand around the fabric. "I'll leave you now."

He turned, but she grabbed his arm with a loose and leaden grip.

"Don't go," she pleaded, voice faint. "Stay with me."

"It wouldn't be proper-"

"What use 's propriety now? I'm blind, so I must touch to see. I must touch here," she extended her hand to his chest, then felt her way up to his heart, "and here, to know you."

He swallowed as she rested her ear against his pulse. Could she feel it quickening? The joy of her touch was tainted with revulsion, however, as she was not herself. He tried to push her upright. She refused to budge.

"Stay with me," she whispered.

"Until you fall asleep."

"Then I shan't."

"Very well... Are you not going to dress for bed, then?"

"No. I'm comfortable."

She kept her eyes open for a minute or two, staring blankly ahead, before they drifted shut. He waited for her hand to grow limp against his chest, then a moment more, so as not to disturb her when he left. If she woke to find him in bed with her, and had no memory of the previous night… The idea of leaving her with that was unthinkable.

He managed to slip away, taking care to place her head gently upon the pillow as he did so.

He drifted into the sitting room and lied down on the couch, mind flooding with thoughts all tangling together like thread- breaking when he pulled them apart. His eyes refused to shut. What would the sultana want from him next? Another torture chamber? His mind had dried up of such horrible inventions.

His eyelids began to close after a few hours of agonizing thought. As he began to slip into dreams, deep enough to hear the faint voice of a woman and see shadows blending into color, the bed creaked. His eyes snapped open.

"Erik?" Christine called frailly. Her footsteps were steady as she found her way through the dividing curtain into the sitting room, arms outstretched to feel her way.

"What is it?" he asked as he sat up, averting his eyes rather than take in her reaching figure.

She followed his voice until she found his side, then set herself beside him. He shifted away ever so slightly.

"What do you need?" he asked.

"I had a nightmare."

His lips parted. "What about? Do you need something to calm you?"

"No… no, I just need to be certain." She kneaded her palms for a moment. "I'm expected to consummate the marriage. They bound me to such terms."

"And if they must believe that, then I shall be as convincing as need be."

"But in my dream, they came in, in the morning- Shideh and some other women-"

"Shideh?"

"The girl who translates for me. They came in to see if, well, there was proof of it. And they didn't find any… Well, what if they come in, in the morning? To… be sure?"

"I wouldn't put them above it, though I think it very unlikely. But I still don't understand you."

"I know more than I ought, being in the opera… Do you still have the knife I gave you?"

"Yes. But if anyone's blood is to be spilled, I insist it is my own."

"But if they see a wound on you, they might suspect-!"

"I can manage it."

"Just give me the knife," she insisted, extending her hand out in the direction of his voice. "It is mine, after all."

"Giving it to you would be the same as cutting you with my own hand. No."

He rose and started towards the bedroom. She followed, hands outstretched, grasping at the air.

"Erik, please! Don't! You've already suffered enough-"

"And you have not?" He pressed the knife into his fingertip until a red bead formed, then smeared it on the white linen. "Besides, it is done, with hardly a drop spilled."

"If you keep hurting yourself for my sake-"

"You should not be here, should not be _blind_ , and since you are, you shall be spared any and every pain."

"Oh, you wretched, obstinate man!"

She placed her hand upon his cheek, then threw her arms about him, letting out a dry sob on his chest.

Before he could remember to breathe again, before the warmth of her body had even begun melting his frame, she pulled back from him and clutched his head in hers, staring at him with her blank eyes. Without a word, she pulled his lips down to hers with remarkable precision. Her kiss tasted like tears.

He pushed her from him.

"Don't," he insisted, fingers ghosting over his lips.

"Don't?" she sniffled. "Why not? When you are now gentle and-"

"I am a beast! That is what I am here. I am not permitted to behave like a man. I am a dog. The sultana calls for me, I come. She tells me to retrieve something, I bring it back with haste. She tells me to kill a man, I must! If I do not, I condemn you and I to torture and agonizing death. You act as if everything will be all right if you swear to things, obey every word, but you do not matter here. They see you as a thing to use against me, or for me, not as you are. If I step out of line, you will be punished for my impudence. I am the only person who looks out for you here. So yes, I shall bleed for you, lie for you, cheat and steal, because I brought you here... and because you are my only freedom in this hellish place."

"And you are mine," she breathed. "And you are no beast, and not to blame... So let me kiss you."

"I don't deserve it."

"And if I want to? Will you deny me what I want? I have been kept beneath a ship for weeks, able to hear you but not see or touch you. All I have is touch now... Let me kiss you."

He was helpless to stop her hands from cupping his face. She traced his blemishes, mapping them with her fingertips, a faint smile playing over her features. She left an imprint on his skin, and her touch burned like sunlight. She wove her arms about his neck and pulled him to her lips. This time he met her.

When his head cleared from her dizzying warmth, he found himself unable to move from her, as if encased in lead. She placed his trembling hands about her waist until they steadied. Her pulse was high and heavy in her throat and, lost in the dream of it all, he kissed her cheek. She angled her head to place his next at her jawline, and she shivered, though not with cold.

 _"Erik,"_ she breathed.

The room was suddenly stifling. He traced her pulse with his lips until he met her collarbone, eyes shut in bliss. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears. The world was forgotten for a moment, slipping away, and he clung to the dream until his senses returned to him in a great rush of fear. Was she still unaware of herself, though she seemed of sound mind? Did she truly want him to continue? And how far?

"You're confused," he whispered, though he did not remove his hands from her waist, nor his lips more than a breath away from her skin, pale as alabaster. But those white pillars were cold, and oh, she was so warm and soft! Very much alive as she sighed against his ear. Every muscle, every tendon in his body fell slack, but he clenched his jaw in resistance.

"Christine," he insisted as he separated from her. "It's too late, and you're still not yourself... Did they tell you to do this?"

"No. No, they didn't." Her eyelids were heavy. "I am myself-"

"Please go to bed... I'm going to get some air."

He stepped outside. The guards eyed him beneath their astrakhans, but he was permitted to lean against the wall and regain his composition.

Upon reentering, he found Christine had put on the nightshirt. She was lying on the couch, eyes shut. Obstinate, wonderful woman.

He scooped her up in his arms and brought her into the bedroom, where he deposited her beneath the dark sheets. Her hand found its way about his wrist, and not by accident.

"Stay with me," she whispered. "Please, if only tonight. I don't want to be alone in the dark."

"If that is truly what you want," he sighed, "then I could never deny you."

...

Sunrise began to slip over the windowsill, making the room blush. Erik slipped out from beneath the bedsheets, his joints stiff and his clothes sticking. Christine moaned and turned over in bed, wrapping her arms about the pillow. Her curls were a wild, wonderful mess.

After cleaning himself up a bit, he went out the door, intending to ask for some breakfast for her. The request fled his mind, however, upon taking in the slight form of Darius' murderer. She was speaking to the guards. Curiously, the men had been changed. They were taller. Younger.

"What are you doing here?" Erik growled in Farsi.

"I come whenever the Shah bids me to," Shideh replied without emotion.

"Whenever the sultana bids you to. Her hands are on the strings."

"Exactly. As you are awake and in full command of your senses, I see no point in wasting time. Shall we?"

She gestured to the door. Erik opened it just enough to let in her slight figure in. She then, without asking, sat herself down on a satin pouf.

"Why do you think you have been brought here?" she asked.

"To entertain the sultana."

"That is a ruse." She gestured to a chair across from her. "Sit... Your wife is asleep, is she not?"

Erik glanced back through the dividing curtain, towards the bed where Christine lay with her back to them.

"Yes," he replied, remaining on his feet.

"Good."

"And what is my true purpose here, child. You act as if I'm mistaken, even though that is what I have been led to believe by even you. Am I not only to be the sultana's chained beast?"

"No. As you know, the Shah has little hold of the throne. You may have wondered how his brother died, as he was the Shah you expected to see. He was found dead in his bedroom two years ago, poisoned by a member of his harem. Curious."

"Indeed. I doubt you provide your women with such means."

"A son cannot kill his mother."

"But a mother can kill her son. What significance does this have for me?"

"I am not under the sultana's jurisdiction, but the Shah's. You have not been brought here to entertain the sultana. You have been brought here to rid us of her."

He smiled without humor. "Ah, I see. Is the Shah suddenly lacking in assassins? Why waste his time bringing me here over the course of two months, with numerous moving parts, only for me to rid him of someone he could easily remove by himself?"

"He didn't bring you here. He let the sultana do as she pleased, to use her own favorite against her. After all, why should you not want to kill her now? She has blinded your lover-"

He pulled Christine's knife from his pocket in one swift motion, pinning her against the wall with the tip. Her breath misted over the cold surface. She swallowed against the point, her breath trembling.

"Killing me would not be in your best interest," she said. "The sultana believes I am loyal. She would retaliate."

"If you truly are the Shah's, I could torture you with this very knife, just before the point of death, and you would make an excuse to the sultana rather than incriminate me."

"Very well. Do it, with your wife in the next room."

"She is not my wife! You have forced her to come here and serve my interests against her will!"

"She is to be a torment to you, not a gift. The sultana has planned the most horrible tortures-"

"For Christine?"

The knife relaxed against her throat. She nodded gingerly.

"And in return," she replied, "you… unless you kill the puppet mistress first. So I advise you release me, as I can see the answer in your eyes."

Erik's breathing was in pants. A drop of blood rested at the tip of the blade, but he withdrew. She sank back onto the pouf, clutching her throat.

"Am I given full discretion?" he growled.

"You are, and I am at your disposal."

"Be careful with your choice of words."

The floorboards creaked in the other room. They both turned to the curtain, which Christine had silently parted with one trembling hand.

"What has happened?" she asked. "I heard loud voices."

"I came at the sultana's bidding, madame," Shideh replied in French, rising, "to replace your linen."

Christine's cheeks flushed with color, but she shifted to the side allow it. Erik went to her and brought her from the doorway.

"I'll explain everything soon," he insisted. "But I can tell you now that perhaps things have shifted in our favor."


End file.
